YTnin 
F^ARODit 



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BARRY 



LIBRARY OF'CONGRESS, 

Shelf .ZU^^j 

UMTZD STATES OF AMEBICA. 






PLAYTHINGS 

AND 

PARODIES 



BY 

BARRY PAIN 

AUTHOR OF "IN A CANADIAN CANOE," ETC. 



NEW YORK ^9^1^ /\ 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 
104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 






o 

"A' 






Copyright, 1892, by 
CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 



A II rights reserved. 



THE MERSHON COMPANY PRBSS, 
RAHWAY, N. J. 



®e&fcate5 

TO 

Mrs. RUDOLF LEHMANN. 



CONTENTS. 



The Sincerest Form of Flattery : 
I. Of Mr. Rudyard Kipling, . 
II. Of Mr. John Ruskin, 

III. Of Mr. R. D. Blackmore, . 

IV. Of Mr. W. Pater, . 

V. Of Count Lyof N. Tolstoi, 
The Hundred Gates, 
The Secular Confessional : 

I. The Last Chapter, 
II. Broken Hearts, 

III. The Murder at Euston, 

IV. Bad Habits, 

V. The Processional Instinct, 
VI. Binley's Cigars, 
VII. The Victim of Indirectness, 
Sketches in London : 

I. Under THE Clock, 
II. Outside a Board School, . 
III. A Sunless Dawn, 
IV. No Thoroughfare, 
V. In Lincoln's Inn Fields. . 



3 
9 
14 
21 

25 
33 

61 

66 
73 
79 
84 
90 
96 

105 

"3 
121 

128 
134 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

VI. On the Underground, .... 140 

VII. In Kensington Gardens, .... 147 
VIII. On Waterloo Bridge, . , . .153 

IX. Tottenham Court Road 159 

X. Saturday Night IN THE Edgware Road, . 165 

XI. At a Fire, 171 

XII. Oxford Street, 177 

XIII. Noon in Judea, . . . . . 183 

XIV. AtKew, 192 

XV. "Bangkoldy" AT Hampstead Heath, 199 

XVI. The Ghost of "Ghosts," .... 209 

XVII. A Theme with Variations. . , . 219 

XVIII. The Poets at Tea 225 

Home Pets, 

I. Boys 233 

II. Girls 239 

III. Reciters 247 

IV. Fancy Pens 254 

V. Personal Friends, 261 

VI. Notebooks, 268 

VII. Piano-Tuners, 276 

VIII. Dukes, 282 

IX. Babies, 288 

X. Fires 293 

XI. Curates 300 

XII. Watches, 306 



THE SINCEREST FORM OF 
FLATTERY. 



I.— OF MR. RUDYARD KIPLING. 

A SLIGHT INACCURACY. 

This is not a tale. It is a conversation 
which I had with a complete stranger. If you 
ask me why I talked to him, I have no very 
good reason to give. I would simply tell you 
to spend three hours of solitude in that same 
compartment on that same line. You may not 
know the line; which is neither your loss nor 
the company's gain. I do, and I had spent 
three hours alone on it. And at the end of 
three hours I longed for human converse. I 
was prepared to talk Persian poetry to an as- 
sistant commissioner; I was ready to talk to 
anyone about anything; I would have talked 
to a pariah dog; talked kindly, too. 

So when the complete stranger got in I be- 
gan at once. You see, I did not know then 
that he was an inaccurate young man. I 
thought he was a nicely dressed, average speci- 



4 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

men. It never does to judge from appear- 
ances. I once knew a T. G., or, rather, Tranter 
of the Bombay side knew him . . . but that is 
another story. First we talked weather, and 
then we talked horse. He smoked my cheroots, 
and I told him several things which were quite 
true. He began to look a little uneasy, as if 
he were not used to that kind of talk. Then 
he told me the story of the little mare which 
he bought in Calcutta. He gave Rs. 175 for 
her. It was thought by his friends at the time 
that he had been too generous; she had a very 
bad cough and a plaintive look in the eyes. 

"I have now had her for two years," he said, 
slowly removing my cheroot from his lips, 
"and she has not got over that cough yet. 
She also continues to look plaintive. But she 
is fast. The other day I drove her sixty miles 
along the road in an ekka.'' 

I was given to understand that the time had 
been five hours, twenty minutes, and a deci- 
mal. Well, a country-bred mare will go almost 
any pace you like to ask. I should have 
thought about believing the man if he had not 



OF MR. RUDYARD KIPLING. 



put in the decimal. As it was, I never really 
wanted to call him a liar until he picked up 
the book which I had been reading. It was a 
copy of "Plain Tales from the Hills," and it lay 
on the seat by my side. I have a liking for 
that book, and I often read it. It is a good 
book, 

"Can you understand," he asked, "why that 
book is so popular in England? Perhaps you 
will allow me to explain. I understand books 
as well as I understand horses and men. First, 
note this. Even in your schooldays you prob- 
ably saw the difference between the prose 
of Cicero and the conversational Latin of 
Plautus." 

This last remark enabled me to place the 
man. He was, it seemed, a full-sized Oxford 
prig. They are fond of throwing their edu- 
cation about like that. Which is loathly in 
them. But they do it. I explained to him 
that I had never been to school. 

"Well, then, to come down to your level," 
he continued. "You have read English books, 
and you must have seen that written English 



6 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

is not like spoken English. When we speak, 
for instance, — to take quite a minor point, — we 
often put a full stop before the relative clauses 
— add them as an afterthought." 

Which struck me as being true. 

"But when we write we only put a comma. 
The author of 'Plain Tales from the Hills' saw 
this, and acted on the principle. He punctu- 
ated his writing as he did his speaking; and 
used more full stops than any man before him. 
Which was genius." 

I think — I am not sure, but I think — that at 
this point I blushed. 

"Secondly, the public want to be mystified. 
They like references to things of which they 
have never heard. They read the sporting 
papers for that reason. So this man wrote of 
Anglo-Indian life, and put very little explana- 
tion into it. It was all local color. Do you 
suppose the average cockney knows what 
'P. W. D. accounts' are? Of course he doesn't. 
But he likes to be treated as if he did. The 
author noted this point. And that also shows 
genius. Thirdly, the public do not like the 



OF MR. RUDYARD KIPLING. 



good man, nor do they like the bad man. 
They like the man-who-has-some-good-in-him- 
after-all. 'I am cynical,' says our author, 'and 
desperately worldly, and somewhat happy-go- 
lucky, yet I, the same man, am interested in 
children. Witness my story of Tods and my 
great goodness to Muhammed Din. With all 
my cynicism I have a kind heart. Was I not 
kind even unto Jellaludin? I am the man- 
who-has-some-good-in-him-after-all. Love me!' 
Genius again. Fourthly, take the subject-mat- 
ter — soldiers, horses, and flirts. Of these three 
the public never weary. It may not have been 
genius to have seen that. And the public like 
catch-words. I knew a girl once who did the 

serio-comic business at the , but that is 

another story. To recognize the beauty of 
catch-words may not be genius either. But it 
is genius to say more than you know, and to 
seem to know more than you say — to be young 
and to seem old. There are people who are 
connected with the Government of India who 
are so high that no one knows anything about 
them except themselves, and their own knowl- 



8 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

edge is very superficial. Is our author afraid? 
Not a bit. He speaks of them with freedom, 
but with vagueness. He says Up Above. 
And the public admire the freedom, and never 
notice the vagueness. Bless the dear public !" 

The train and the complete stranger stopped 
simultaneously. I was not angry. " How do 
you come to know the workings of the author's 
mind?" I asked. 

I put the question calmly, and I waited to 
see him shrivel. 

He never shriveled. He was getting his 
gun-case out from under the seat. "I am the 
author," he said blandly. "Good-afternoon." 
Then he got out. 

He was so bland that I should have quite 
believed him if I had not written the book my- 
self. As it is, I feel by no means sure about it. 

Which is curious. 



II.— OF MR. JOHN RUSKIN. 

FROM LECTURE I. — ARROWROOT. 

49. Eat! Nay, you do not eat. I do not 
know why any man of us under heaven should 
talk about eating. We spend our money — the 
money of a great nation — qfi filthy fossils and 
bestial pictures ; on party journals and humili- 
ating charities; on foolish books and gas-lit 
churches. And on solid, honest beef we will 
spend nothing, unless we are driven by neces- 
sity ; and, even then, there are those who con- 
tent them with frozen mutton, the fat of which 
is base and inferior. I do not think there is 
any sadder sight in this world than a nation 
without appetite. 

I have pointed out to-night that the meat 
and vegetables which you have despised — nay, 
which you are daily despising — go to form part 
of the body; and that the brain is a part of the 
body ; and that on the brain all just concep- 



PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



tions depend. So far we found that the scien- 
tist was with us. I left him dazed and trem- 
bling, hesitating on the verge of conclusions 
which I have not feared to state quite plainly. 
If you forget every other word that I have said, 
remember at least those conclusions; for I do 
feel that they are significant and important to 
every one of us. I will state them once more. 
The brain-life increases xvith the amount we 
eat. If we would have just conceptions, we 
must devour seven solid meat-meals a day. You 
do not do it. You cannot, in any true sense, 
be said to eat. Why do you thus neglect your 
duty? Have patience with me a little longer, 
and I will show you why. 

I say, firstly, that with most of us this thing 
is a physical impossibility. We trifle in some 
sort with three, or, at the most, four meat- 
meals, and we dare to say that we eat. I do 
not wish to speak wildly or harshly. On the 
contrary, the wonder to me is that we can do 
what we do on the little that we take. But have 
we not fallen very low when, in our struggle 
upward, we find ourselves blocked by a physi- 



OF MR. JOHN RUSKIN. 



cal impossibility? Secondly, we are the vic- 
tims of the insanity of avarice. How long 
mont people would look at the largest turbot 
before they would give the price of a first folio 
of Shakspere for it ! We venture even to ask 
the blessing of Heaven on lentil soup and a 
slice of jam pudding. For what do you sup- 
pose is the cause of this consuming white lep- 
rosy of vegetarian restaurants which has broken 
out all over our fair land? Lentil soup is 
cheap, and for that reason we allow it to take 
the place of nobler food. Every day I see in 
your streets some fresh sign of this insanity. 
I see men go forth from their houses and pol- 
lute the pure morning air with the breath of 
their filthy lungs, when that same breath might 
be sweetened and disinfected with the aroma 
of a Villar y Villar. Is this offense against 
nature excusable on any plea of economy? 

Lastly. You are influenced by fashion. 
There is no need of words of mine for proof of 
this. I will say nothing of fashion, and I will 
not chide you. I know that you are weak, and 
the knowledge saddens me. I will only ask 



12 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

you to let me read to you four lines of true 
poetry : 

Her eyes were deeper than the depths 

Of waters stilled at even ; 
She had three hlies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Aye, and even to-night it may be that this 
blessed damosel looks down upon us from 
heaven's golden bar. Can you not picture the 
sorrow that must be in her eyes? Can you be 
any longer content that your meat-meals shall 
be as the lilies, and not as the stars in number? 
Remember this, my friends : The lilies look up 
to the stars. 

50. What, then, shall we do? I have now 
spoken to you for several hours, and I must 
bring my lecture to an end. I have drawn my 
bow at a venture; I have shot my arrow; I 
shall find it after many days; not, as the poet 
sings, in the heart of an oak, but in the root of 
our national degradation. That, indeed, is one 
of the reasons why I called. this lecture "Ar- 
rowroot." What shall we do? The night is 
here, in which no man can either work or eat. 



OF A/A\ JOHN RUSKIN. 13 



For the present, my friends, our holiest act will 
be to go to bed. And if, as you lie there to- 
night, sleep refuses to come to you, take refuge 
in no vile drugs, no doctor's narcotics. Drink 
rather of the pure arrowroot ; in other words, 
read a few pages of this lecture, which I have 
had printed by an entirely honest man, as well 
as he can do it, and which will be sold for a 
just price at the door of the hall. So shall 
you sleep well. 

And on the morrow may we wake, you and 
I, with fresh strength and a better appetite. 



III.— OF MR. R. D. BLACKMORE. 

CHRIS AND CHRISSIE. 

At this my uncle raised himself slowly from 
his chair. All his actions were slow and delib- 
erate, not from laziness or rheumatics, from 
which two complaints he never sufifered, but 
because he would undertake nothing without 
due care and forethought. And this was one 
of the reasons why he was so respected that 
his opinion was constantly being asked in the 
village, and his orchards were never robbed 
except in unusually good seasons, when the 
fine sense of the Lonton boys pointed out to 
them that the jargonelles were unduly plentiful, 
and should be thinned, in order to promote 
more thankfulness for the remainder. 

He went straight to the little corner cup- 
board where the cigars were kept, drew his 
bunch of keys with the yellow labels on them 
from his pocket, and attempted to unlock the 



OF MR. R. D. BLACKMORE. 15 

door with the key of the little toolhouse that 
stood at the south end of the garden just 
where the Lonton Brook entered our land ; 
being, in fact, a little short-sighted, but unwill- 
ing to acknowledge the fact, from humility, 
lest he should be credited with a greater age 
than it had pleased Providence to give him. 
He found the right key at last, and got the 
door open. There were two boxes — one of 
threepenny and one of sixpenny. That, at 
least, was the way he distinguished them, hav- 
ing a hearty contempt for all foreign names 
and fal-lals, as became a good English market- 
gardener with land of his own and the third 
best pew in the village church. Now these 
cigars were a luxury, upon the purchase of 
which my uncle never would have embarked 
knowingly; but the unforeseen overtakes us in 
many ways, and assuredly it had overtaken my 
uncle in the matter of these cigars. His head 
man. Long Jim, had showed such misplaced 
confidence in human nature as to send bushel 
after bushel of early kidneys up to the "Green 
Lion ' as fast as the landlord, a man of no prin- 



1 6 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

ciple, liked to order them. Now it was well 
known all over Lonton that the "Green Lion" 
was in a failing way, the beer being inferior 
and the house standing too far back from the 
coach road. At any rate, as no money was 
forthcoming, my uncle had been compelled to 
take the "Green Lion's" entire stock of cigars 
instead ; and though it grieved him at the 
time, he found them useful afterward to mark 
occasions. 

"Which shall it be, Chris; threepenny or 
sixpenny?" he said. "Chris, you're a good lad, 
and you're going to marry a sensible girl with 
no nonsense about her. So it shall be a six- 
penny. Chris, my boy, you shall see me smoke 
a sixpenny in honor of your Chrissie." 

I thanked him humbly, feeling quite sure 
now that he considered it a great occasion, and 
one of which he approved. For the sixpennies 
not only cost twice as much as the others, but 
did not entirely suit him, being very full in 
flavor and (it was thought by those who had 
had the good luck to try them) a trifle out of 
condition. I made a paper spill and lit his 



OF MR. R. D. BLACKMORE. IJ 

cigar for him, and mixed him a second glass of 
rum and water without saying anything about 
it. He did not seem to notice what I had 
done, but he sipped it cheerfully. He only 
allowed himself one glass every night ; some- 
times I took upon myself to mix him a second, 
when the weather had been wayward and he 
seemed to me to require consolation. He al- 
ways chid me for doing it ; but, being a sensi- 
ble man, and knowing that there should be no 
bad blood between near relations, he would 
finally forgive me and drink the liquor; for he 
knew that, if he did not drink it, it would fall 
to the portion of our old servant Martha, and 
that rum and water was too high feeding for 
that spirited old dame. At this moment 
Martha tapped at the door and entered. She 
told us that Long Jim had just come back from 
Birstock, that he had put up the cart and seen 
to the pony, and that she had given him sup- 
per, as ordered. Further, that Long Jim had 
eaten two pounds of solid beef, but had not 
touched the undercut, having been duly in- 
structed that the undercut was not for the likes 



1 8 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

of him ; that he had drunk therewith three 
pints of the second-best ale ; that he seemed to 
have something on his mind, and had hardly 
spoken ; and that he sent his respects and 
compliments, and would like to speak to Mas- 
ter Chris. 

"I will go to him," I said, starting up. 

"No, no," said my uncle, with a natural feel- 
ing that Long Jim was his property, and had 
no business to speak at all, except in his pres- 
ence and after encouragement ; "show him in 
here." 

Long Jim's real name was James Long, but 
he had been called Long Jim from his great 
height. He was a thin, dry, humble, dejected 
man. He had a large family and worked hard 
for it ; and was treated with a good deal of 
loving contempt by his busy little wife. He 
came shambling into the room with his hat in 
one hand, and gazed sheepishly first at my 
uncle and then at myself. 

"You may sit down, James Long," said my 
uncle, "and tell me what you have to say." 

He seated himself awkwardly. "There be a 



OF MR. R. D. BLACKMORE. 19 

wise woman come to Birstock, and she do say 
that there be rain more'n enow to fall next 
Lord's Day, an' it seemeth." 

"Jim," I struck in, for I could see his man- 
ner, "you're lying. Tell us the truth, and 
don't shirk it." 

"Miss Chrissie Greenhouse hath left her 
home, an' no man knoweth where she be — no, 
not one on 'em ; nor why she hath done it." 

I do not quite know what happened next. 
My uncle shaded his eyes with one hand, as if 
the glare of the candles hurt them. I felt that 
I must do something or die; so I drank my 
uncle's rum and water. I could hear poor Jim 
blubbering. My uncle was the first to speak. 

"James Long, be quiet." I never before 
had seen my uncle look so brave and noble as 
he did then. "Where are we?" 

"In the first vollum," sobbed Jim. 

"Then we must at once get on a false scent, 
and, to do that, we must have a detective. 
We must keep on with the false scent all 
through the second volume, and find the right 
trail about the beginning of the third. Bear 



20 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

up, Chris, my boy ; we're all right, because 
we're in a novel. Have a cigar. Have a six — 
I mean, have a threepenny cigar." 

It was my first cigar. While I smoked it, 
we discussed our plans. 

"George Bradby is at the bottom of this," I 
said. My uncle slapped his knee. "You're 
right, Chris. Of course, he isn't really," he 
added in a whisper, "but we must keep it up." 

"Else there'll be no second vollum," said 
Jim sadly. 



IV.— OF MR. WALTER PATER. 

MARIUS AT SLOANE STREET. 

Above all, there was at this time a desire 
abroad to attain that which was best. It had 
spread over the country like a great wave; its 
furthest ripple reaching even to the lower and 
more common minds, and awakening in them 
an intelligent seriousness, a newer and brighter 
perception of their own immediate good, and 
the will to secure it at any cost to others. It 
seemed, as it were, a stray fragrance from the 
old school of Cyrene, blown by some petulant 
wind down the ages, and lighting at last upon 
this weary, overwrought civilization. At least, 
this lucent, flame-like devotion to self- this 
strenuous, almost feverish, worship of the Ego 
— was there, vividly present among men, and 
like to some new religion in its animating 
power. And if upon its high altar the happi- 
ness of others had to be sacrificed to personal 



2 2 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

and individual ends, that sacrifice was ever 
made — as, indeed, all such must be made — in 
perfect simplicity and hopefulness. There was 
no tetchy fretful complaining. The individual 
and his ideal being one, his holiest act was to 
please himself. All that was lost, with that 
purpose, was well lost ; the highest and purest 
form of asceticism was the utter devotion to self. 

Marius — susceptible, as he had ever been, to 
all sweet influences — found himself strangely 
dominated by the beauty of this new spirit. 
Standing at the corner of the old ]^ia Sloancn- 
sis, he felt almost faint with the longing to do 
something — a little thing, perhaps, but still 
something — to show how he loved himself. 
The public vehicles — snow white or scarlet, 
sapphire or peach color — passed before him in 
gorgeous procession from the distant circus. 
To him — as, indeed, to others — each color had 
an inner meaning, and was not only decorative. 
It was an appeal, a voice that called : 

"Come into us. Be part of us. Come to 
the dreamy South or to the burning West. 
Come all the way, all the way !" 



OF MR. WALTER PATER. 23 

The afternoon had been broken by showers, 
the wind only half drying the pavement before 
another torrent came ; and Marius noted the 
ardent and special apprehension of the subscllia 
interior a of these vehicles, and the musical 
chant of Plenum intra! Plenum intra! Yes, 
even in this crowd of quite ordinary and com- 
mon people, the new spirit was showing itself. 
.The renunciation of others for self, that true 
sacrifice, was made again and again, willingly 
and cheerfully, each time that one of these 
public vehicles stopped. 

A chance gave Marius his opportunity, and 
he at once decided to take it. "I am going 
from this wet weariness," he said to Cornelius, 
who stood by his side. "In yonder vehicle 
there is room for one only ; I shall be that one ; 
and you, dear friend, will wait for the next." 

Without another word he pushed his way 
through the throng. Never had he been more 
conscious of his strength, his great, fiery man- 
hood. Carelessly enough he flung from the 
step of the vehicle some daughter of the peo- 
ple who would have anticipated him. He had 



24- PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

not noticed that she was not alone. After- 
ward he could remember but little of what 
next happened. His capacity for receiving 
exquisite physical impressions seemed sud- 
denly satiated by some intense experience. 
He was only conscious of quick movement; 
and then he knew that he had seated himself 
in the road, and that the people were crowding 
about him. For a few seconds he seemed to 
be living too quickly, too keenly. 

"What has happened?" he gasped, with a 
look of mad appeal. 

"You have been kicked," said Cornelius 
simply, as he helped him to his feet. 

"Ah !" He limped away with the young sol- 
dier. "I have indeed been kicked," he said 
very slowly. Then, as the fullness and sharp- 
ness of the sensation became more convincing, 
he burst out: '*Vixi! Vixi ! And where is 
the nearest temple of iEsculapius?" 



v.— OF COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI. 

donovitch's confession (shockii-jgly 
translated). 

DONOVITCH uttered two sighs, and for some 
time remained silent. His face had become 
longer, and there was more of his mouth. His 
ears twitched. It was frightful. Two passen- 
gers, who had been going on to Liverpool 
Street, got out at Charing Cross. I think they 
said that they would go on by the next 'bus. 
One of them was a young woman ; she wore a 
green hat. It has nothing to do with the story 
or anything else, and that is why I mention it. 
I am a Russian realist, and in a fair way of 
business. Admire, and pass on. 

"Music is an awful thing," he went on at 
last. "What is it? Why does it do what it 
does? What is there in his wife's musical 
evening that makes the husband to be de- 
tained on business? Answer me that. You 



26 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



cannot? I will tell you, because I knoiv. 
People say that music causes ennui — that it 
bores; also, that it occasionally distracts. 
Lies, lies, lies — all lies! It elevates the soul. 
That is why music is so dangerous and acts at 
times in so peculiar a manner. If one's soul is 
elevated too far — how am I to express myself? 
— if one's soul passes out of one's reach, one 
has to get along without it until it comes 
down again. 

"On that particular morning it was bright 
and sunny. I felt light, but prescient ; I knew 
that the Italian would come again, and that 
something would happen. I want you to see 
that I was not entirely myself even before the 
Italian came. New feelings, new qualities sud- 
denly declared themselves within me. What 
was I experiencing? Dyspepsia? I cannot 
say. The Italian came at eleven o'clock. I 
hated him — hated his black hair and coarse 
face — hated the mechanical piano with the 
green baize covering — hated the immoral 
monkey which sat on the top. I would not 
let them see that I hated them. I was too 



OF COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI. 27 



proud for that, but my heart swelled. It was 
very painful, but I kept quiet. I was deter- 
mined to be perfectly natural; so I went to 
the sideboard and drank a glass of vodka. 
Then I lit a cigarette ; I thought that it would 
deaden the feeling. I said to my soul : 'Soul, 
don't move. Stop where you are. Refuse 
to be elevated.' Yet I must confess that 
directly he began to play 'See-saw,' I felt my 
control over myself lapsing from me. I went 
to the window and looked at the Italian. I 
can see him now — a man in robust health, well 
nourished, with horrible red lips, turning a 
handle. Do you know 'See-saw'? They al- 
ways play it at the circus when the two per- 
forming dogs are fooling about at opposite 
ends of a plank. Every bar sends the soul up 
with a jerk; you will not believe me. But 
there is a point at which one positively wishes 
the music to stop. With me, that point was 
reached very soon. I flung open the window, 
and said distinctly: 'Go away. Go quite 
away, and leave my soul alone, can't you?' I 
do not think the Italian understood. His 



28 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

monkey grinned. Oh, why did it grin? It 
ought not to have grinned. It is immoral to 
grin. In China monkeys are only allowed to 
grin on important occasions. Here they do it 
in the open street, with young girls passing 
every minute. Do let us be moral! Have 
you never thought what the effect must be on 
the cab horses? The Italian changed his tune. 
It was a florid arrangement of a music-hall 
song — I forget by what composer. I turned 
back into the room and flung myself on a sofa. 
I sobbed, but I do not know why. Then I 
put on my boots, and smoked two cigarettes 
at once, to deaden the feeling. I may tell you 
that I knew very well now what I was going 
to do; it was all planned in my mind just as it 
actually happened. Yet, if he had stopped 
playing at that moment all might have been 
well. He did not stop; he began to play 
'Annie Rooney.' 

"I crept with soft, wolf-like steps into the 
hall. I took from the umbrella-stand a slightly 
curved Damascus blade which had never been 
used, and which was extremely sharp. It had 



OF COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI. 29 

been intended for the water rate, but now I 
had another use for it. Then I put on my hat 
and went out. I do not remember how I got 
out of the front door and into the street. I 
cannot say how I moved, whether I walked or 
ran. I remember nothing of all that. I re- 
member only the expression of the Italian's 
face as I stepped toward him, holding the dag- 
ger behind me. It was an expression of terror 
— absolute, abject terror. I was glad to see it. 
The monkey looked annoyed, and darted a 
quick look of interrogation at his master. 
Suddenly the Italian smiled, and assuming an 
air of indifference so false as to be ludicrous, 
said : 'We was giving you a little music' 

"He did not finish his sentence. I felt the 
need of giving free course to my rage. With 
a sudden cry I flung myself upon him. I 
must have frightened him dreadfully, for he 
became as white as a sheet ; he ran away, ac- 
companied by the monkey. 

'"You are poltroons, poltroons!' I shouted 
after them. I did not care much, because the 
mechanical piano was there. I took it by the 



30 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

handle with both hands, and shook it convul- 
sively. The contact was repulsive, but I felt 
driven to it. It shrieked terribly. Then I felt 
that this was not enough ; it did not satisfy 
me. I raised my dagger, and struck it twice 
in the 'Annie Rooney,' section. It never 
struggled. There was a jet of warm arpeggios, 
and then it was still. I crept back again to 
the house, and smoked some more cigarettes. 
Then I went to sleep. I slept for two days." 

Donovitch ceased, and buried his head in 
his hands. 

"This is Liverpool Street," I remarked. 

He rose hurriedly, to descend from the 'bus, 
tumbled down the flight of steps, and broke 
his silly neck. 

I am a respectable Russian realist, but I was 
glad. 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 

A DREAM OF BAD BOOKS. 

My friend Timson, of the Psychical Society, 
is peculiarly successful in the matter of 
dreams. For years they have gone on in an 
ascending ratio ; each one is more vivid than 
the last, and fulfilled in more detail. There 
are some people who consider that Timson 
overdoes it a little, that he rides his nightmares 
too hard. Tastes differ as to the proportion 
of untrustworthy narrative which a man may 
introduce about himself into the general con- 
versation ; and when a man has three distinct 
dreams in one night, and relates them all at 
one dinner on the following evening, he does 
lay himself open to a certain amount of criti- 
cism. But Timson is no ordinary man, and 
cannot be judged by ordinary standards. He 
lives in a haunted house, his wife is a medium, 
and he numbers among his intimate acquaint- 
ance several fascinating people who have posi- 



34 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES, 

tively seen with their bodily eyes things un- 
speakable. His extensive leisure is spent 
entirely in researches of the deepest and most 
psychical character, and though you may be 
thankless enough to find him a little weari- 
some, you must at least own that he is an 
authority in his special subject. In fact, what 
Timson does not know, or think he knows, 
about the unseen world is hardly worth the 
knowing. 

Yet when, a few months ago, I told Timson ' 
a dream from which I had recently suffered, 
he proved most unsatisfactory. I related it to 
him partly to repay him for the many wicked 
falsehoods he must have told me at different 
times about himself, but chiefly because I 
thought that Timson's great knowledge of this 
subject would enable him to give me some ex- 
planation and advice. In the latter point I 
was wrong. Timson is an exponent of the sci- 
entific method which does not explain but 
classifies. In my case he refused even to clas- 
sify definitely. I could get little from him ex- 
cept some criticism on parts of my story. I 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 35 

may possibly have offended him by something 
in my manner which he mistook for levity, but 
it appeared that the fatal objection was that 
my dream had not come true, and never could 
come true, and was therefore not worth con- 
sideration. Now, although admitting the fact, 
I took exception to his deductions from it. I 
pointed out to him that I was only a beginner, 
and that if I were encouraged I should soon 
acquire the right knack; that, besides, a dream 
which did not come true must be more start- 
ling to'him than the other kind. But my argu- 
ments were of no use ; he positively refused to 
classify my story in its present incomplete con- 
dition, although he owned that if it ever did 
come true it would rank as an aggravated case 
of inverted telepathy. I do hope it is not 
going to be as bad as that, and I told Timson 
so. I feel that I could not bear it. I en- 
treated him to tell me if he thought that a few 
weeks at the seaside, or riding exercise, or a 
generous diet, would do anything to avert dis- 
aster. But at this point the oracle had the 
misfortune to lose its temper, and insisted that 



36 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

I was not being serious with it. So I obtained 
no further information. 

In laying my dream before the unscientific 
public I must request them not to fall into 
Timson's error of imagining that I would trifle 
with them. 1 account for it myself in this way. 
A month before, I had been confined to my 
room for several days with a sprained ankle, 
and during that period I had been supplied by 
my 'friends with light literature. I dare say 
they meant it well, but if I should ever again 
be afflicted with a sprained ankle, I will either 
take it plain, or I will choose the light litera- 
ture myself. 

The first distinct sensation that occurred to 
me after falling asleep was that I had started to 
take a nice long walk in the country, I had 
passed through Putney, across Wimbledon 
Common, and into a shady lane, and I was 
feeling duller and duller with every step that 
took me further from London and civilization. 
I am always sorry for the poor people who live 
all the year round in the country. How many 
poor children there must be amid our rustic 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 37 

lanes and hedgerows who will pass their whole 
lives without ever having seen the interior of 
an omnibus or the exterior of a sandwich man ! 
While I was occupied with such sad thoughts, 
I was suddenly surprised by seeing before me 
a large square field, the sides of which were 
composed almost entirely of wooden gates, 
there being only a yard or two of low hedge in 
between each. One of these gates was rather 
higher than the rest, and seemed to form the 
principal entrance. This was unoccupied, but 
on each of the others there was one person 
seated. I stood still and counted them. 
There were a hundred gates in all, twenty-five 
on each side. For some moments I hesitated. 
Curiosity advised me to inquire the reason for 
this phenomenon. It would be absurd to sup- 
pose that a field would wantonly have a hun- 
dred gates with ninety-nine of them occupied, 
unless there was some good reason for it. 
Dignity, on the other hand, urged that it was 
beneath me to show the least interest in any- 
.thing except myself. As a rule I obey the 
voice of Dignity, but on this occasion Curiosity 



38 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

prevailed, and I stepped up to the nearest 
gate. 

On the gate a man of middle age was seated, 
of striking appearace. He wore a pointed 
beard, and he was unusually handsome. His 
figure was athletic and graceful. It is always 
difficult to remember what anyone wears, but 
he left in my mind a general impression of ex- 
pensive fur, diamond sleeve-links, and great 
glossiness of boot. Raising my hat, I apolo- 
gized for troubling him, and asked if he could 
give me any information. He looked up, and 
threw away the cigar which he was smoking. 
In a languid voice he answered, "We are stock 
characters — out of books, you know — and we're 
turned out to grass for the present, and that's 
why we sit on gates. Fatiguing weather, is it 
not?" He paused to light another cigar. 
"Take my own case, for instance." 

"Thank you," I said; "I don't smoke." 

He took no notice of my remark, and I see 

now that I must have misunderstood him. "I 

am a hero," he continued, "the ideal man as 

imagined by the idealess woman. I have been 



THE HUNDRED GATES 39 

wonderfully popular in my time. At present 
I sit here and practice the leading traits in my 
character — my consumption of cigars, for in- 
stance." He flung away the one he was smoking 
and carefully selected another. He sniffed at 
it gently, smiled, and dropped it into the ditch. 

"I recognize you, sir," I said. "In most of 
the ladies' novels I think it is stated that you 
were educated at Cambridge or Oxford?" 

"Good old Cambridge College!" he inter- 
polated. 

"Some of the books have given details," I 
went on. 

"Oh, details!" he interrupted, "I should 
think they did. I rowed in the May sixes 
shortly after I'd taken my Fellowship at King's. 
The fellows there eat ham pie and drink seltzer 
and hock. Such times! Learned men they 
are, too, but cynical — very cynical. I remem- 
ber when the old Regius Professor was coaching 
me for my Smalls — in which I took a Special, 
sir, without work — he turned to me and said, 
with a bitter laugh: 'My motto's Pro ego, sir; 
Pro ego — pass the audit.* Splendid man he 



40 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

was, but always drunk! The enthusiasm he 
could awake in the young was wonderful. 
When he was raised to a Bishopric they accom- 
panied him to the station, shouting after his cab 
in the words of the ten thousand under Insan- 
ias: 'Thalassis! Thalassis! the See ! the See !' " 

The excitement of recalling old times was 
too m.uch for him, and he tumbled off his gate. 
He lay on his back, murmuring faintly, "Egus, 
ege, egum, egi, ego, ego." I have no conception 
what he meant, and after picking him up and 
putting him on his perch again, I ventured to 
ask for a free translation. 

Before replying, he lighted and immediately 
threw away another cigar. "Ah !" he said 
pityingly, "you never had a classical education, 
you never were at Eton school. But you asked 
me, I believe, for a short sketch of my subse- 
quent career. In after-life I frequently enter 
the army. She had refused me, you know, and 
my heart was broken. I did not know then, as 
I know now, that her only motive was that it 
would have cut the book short in the second 
volume if she had accepted m.e. They found 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 41 

my horse next morning in the stable, covered 
with foam from head to foot." 

"Poor old stable !" I sighed sympathetically. 

"All night long," he continued, "I had been 

riding in the old desperate dare-devil way 

Can you go on?" 

"I can," I replied. "The noble animal 
seemed to have caught the reckless untamed 
spirit of its rider. Over the black moorland and 
through the flooded river you sped together in 
that fearful ride. With the first glimmerings 
of dawn your resolution was taken, for your 
life was valueless." 

"Thank you," he said; "you've left out a 
page or two, but it will do. I entered the army 
in order to die on the battlefield. She natu- 
rally became a Sister of Mercy, and found me 
delirious in the hospital. She nursed me night 
and day, moved softly about, pressed cooling 
drinks to my burning forehead — and all that 
kind of thing, you know. The doctor gener- 
ally remarks that it is the nurse, and not the 
doctor that is to be complimented on my 
recovery." 



42 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

"It is too true," I answered. "But you are 
not always in the army." 

"Oh, no ; but, wherever I am, I have much 
the same peculiarities. Wealth is one of them ; 
hence an almost painful profusion of cigars. 
My strong emotions are another. I frequently 
push away my plate untasted, owing to strong 
emotions; my emotions are nothing if they're 
not strong. Just see me smother an oath in 
my beard." 

"Don't trouble," I said, "if it hurts at all." 

"Well, I have a small beard, and I take a 
large size in oaths; but I do want you to un- 
derstand that my emotions are strong, and take 
a great deal of repression. At such times I 
generally crush my heel into something, or 
gnaw my teeth or mustache, or curse a menial. 
You see that heel. It's been ground into the 
maple-wood flooring, into the rich tiger skin on 
the carpet, into the wet sand of the seashore, 
into the fragrant violets, into almost every- 
thing into which a heel can be ground." 

"And yet," I suggested, "you have your 
moments of repose." 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 43 

"True," he replied, "but you see nothing of 
my heel then. I am not a Panpharmakon." 
This was another touch of the classics which Avas 
lost upon me. "On these occasions my accesso- 
ries are more important even than myself; fault- 
less evening dress, silken cushions, perfumed 
lamps, for instance. I merely sit there lazily 
peeling a peach — peaches are an expensive fruit, 
aren't they? or curling a loose leaf round my 
Manilla cheroot. A tame Circassian brings me 
a cup of Mocha coffee delicately flavored with 
kirschwasser. There's an Oriental tinge about 
it." 

"And now," I asked, "can you tell me why 
all you people are sitting on gates?" 

Flinging a handful of gold into my face, to 
show his profusion, he replied : 

"Because those who use us have no style; 
so we're compelled to sit on gates." 

"But," I urged, "the critics are always sitting 
on the style of those authors." 

"Indeed!" he returned contemptuously; 
"then how do you account for the critic on the 
hearth? But I will bandy no more words with 



44 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

you. Go and see my brother Jack on the next 
gate. He isn't rich, but he's burly, and ath- 
letic, and English. In some respects he's like 
me, and he's always in love." 

I turned away without any intention of vis- 
iting Jack. I felt certain that Jack would prob- 
ably request me to have a few words with some 
intimate friend of his on the gate next to him, 
and that I should be finally compelled to inter- 
view the whole of those ninety-nine individuals 
who were pining for someone to bore. I might 
possibly have a little conversation with some 
of them, but certainly not with all ; and I was 
determined not to include Jack in my selec- 
tion. However, as I passed his gate, he called 
to me: 

"Stop a moment, sir. I am still as big, sim- 
ple, light-hearted, frank, buoyant, and boyish 
as ever. You really ought to know me." 

"I know you only too well," I replied bru- 
tally; "and you don't interest me." 

"What!" he cried, "not interested in poor 
Jack, no one's enemy but his own, with an arm 
as white as a duchess's, and corded like a black- 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 45 

smith's ! You must be joking. Why, sir, I was 
playing football for England v. Wales the other 
day — a hot afternoon in June it was. I was 
half-forward, and we were being beaten, when 
I looked up and saw ^that the dear girl was 
watching us. It seemed to put new strength 
into me. I set my teeth hard, and with a cry 
of 'Julia!' plunged into the scrimmage, secured 
the ball, and bore it off in triumph to our own 
goal. I shall never forget it." 

"Tell me honestly," I said, "are you often 
as far gone as this?" 

"I am sorry to say," he answered, "that the 
public seem to have lost their taste for me in 
quite so strong a form. But I still exist. I 
still preach the great gospel of manliness." 

"What is that?" I asked. 

"Be strong. Knock your neighbor down, 
and love him as yourself." 

I noticed with considerable satisfaction that 
the apostle of manliness was secured to his 
gate by a short iron chain, so I took this oppor- 
tunity of expressing my opinion of him. "I 
regret," I said, "that I must repeat my asser- 



46 FLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

tion that I am not interested in you. You 
have been done well, but of late years you have 
been overdone. I do not think much of your 
gospel, because I do not believe that the high- 
est form of manhood is the affectionate bargee. 
I have also noticed some defects in your char- 
acter. Your great point is your pluckiness; 
and yet you are not plucky. As you always 
knock your man down it stands to reason that 
you never attack anyone who is superior to 
yourself. You are constantly standing up for 
the right, but your method is so abominably 
dull and monotonous that you make the wrong 
seem preferable. When you were treated idi- 
otically, I was amused at you ; when you fell 
into better hands, I liked you ; at the present 
moment I am exceedingly weary of you, sorry 
to have met you, and trust I shall never see 
you again. Good-morning." 

His only answer, as I moved away, was a 
long, low whistle. This is the way in which 
he habitually expresses surprise. 

I had been so disappointed with the two 
characters I had already seen that I thought I 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 47 

would interview one or two of the opposite 
sex, and then go home. But I had not passed 
many gates before the occupant of one of 
them called out to me a little snappishly: 

"Why don't you laugh?" 

I turned round and saw before me a man of 
middle age, with sandy hair, and a pale green 
face. He was dressed as a city clerk, but with- 
out a hat, and he was smoking a new clay pipe. 

"Why don't you laugh?" he repeated. 

"Why should I?" I asked. 

"Why should you? Well, sir, I'm the lead- 
ing character of English comic verse, and I've 
just sat down on a new silk hat. I don't know 
what else you want. You must have heard it 
go pop, but there's no pleasing some people. 
Perhaps you didn't know my name was Jin- 
kins. As a general rule, I've only just got to 
mention that, and then the smile begins to 
slowly spread itself. It's a curious fact how 
truly humorous all names are which end in -kins. 
There's nothingparticularaboutthe name Tom, 
but Tompkins is really funny. Jinkins is still 
funnier. Look here, you're not laughing!" 



48 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

I felt too depressed to be rude to the man. 
Even as he spoke, the sun, which had been shin- 
ing brightly, went in and the wind changed to 
due east. The air seemed to be heavily 
charged with flat soda water and the back 
numbers of a dead comic paper. When I told 
the dream to Timson he flatly denied that 
such an atmosphere was possible, even in 
dreams. But I experienced it, and I suppose 
I ought to know. 

"I am very sorry," I said, "but I do not 
fancy that I shall ever smile again." 

"But you haven't heard all," he replied, with 
a kind of desperation. "There's this pipe. 
Now I'm not used to smoking, so I shall be 
sick. Sometimes I travel on a steamer, and 
that makes me sick. It doesn't seem to matter 
much as long as I am sick. That's what Eng- 
land really wants. It's popular with all classes, 
but you're too dense to see it. Sometimes I go 
home drunk late at night, or I drop the baby, or 
I'm thrown off a horse, or I have a painful im- 
pediment in my speech. Curates recite me at 
penny readings, because there's no vulgarity 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 49 

about me. And, as I said before, my name's 
Jinkins." 

This finished me. I felt at once that I could 
interview no more characters, and that my best 
course was to go home at once, and go to bed, 
and stop there. I felt prostrated by humiliation 
and agonizing dullness. But it was not to be. 

"You don't look very cheerful," the brute re- 
marked, "and yet I'm sure I've done my best. 
But do go round to the other side of the field. 
You'll find my wife there. I'm compelled by the 
tradition of men to speak of her as the 'missus.' 
What a fine old girl she is ! She will probably 
commence conversation by saying, 'Drat the 
man ! or 'Like his imperence !' But both are 
funny. It's a light and tasty style that I 
should think would just suit a man like you. 
Do promise me to go and see her. She's cer- 
tain to cheer you up." 

"I positively refuse to see your wife. I am 
going home." 

But even as I spoke the field began to turn 
gently round, while the lane in which I stood re- 
mained perfectly still. I think I ought to say 



5° PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

that, when I recounted this part of my story to 
Timson, he positively refused to credit it. He 
pointed out that a square field revolving on its 
own center would come right across the lane 
which bordered one side of it, and that anyone in 
that lane would be swept into space. I am quite 
unable to answer him. I have no doubt that, if 
I could have managed my dream a little more 
mathematically, I should have been swept into 
space. I could only point out to Timson once 
more that I had not had his experience in 
dreaming, and that he must not look for too 
much from a beginner. At the conclusion of 
my dream I did obey a known mathematical 
law, which certainly seems as if I had improved 
wnth practice. Besides, let us suppose that the 
field revolved not on its own center, but on 
some center that it had borrowed for the occa- 
sion — where are Timson's arguments then? 

The fact remains that, although the field 
most certainly turned round, it did not inter- 
fere with me in the least. One by one familiar 
characters on their respective gates passed 
slowly before my eyes. There was the impos- 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 5 1 

sible rustic, scratching his head, and talking 
that mixture of Devonshire, Cumberland, and 
the imagination which is the recognized village 
dialect. Then came the negro servant. He 
hailed me as "Buckra massa." I don't know 
what it means, but I suppose it's all right. He 
disapproved of the motion of the field. "Me 
plenty fear. Me no like dis sarecular rotability, 
sare." I had not time to inquire whether his 
name was Pompey or Caesar; the negro servants 
of fiction generally are either one or the other, 
and I have known one bad case where the poor 
man was both. He was followed by the usual 
family lawyer, who was wrinkling his brow, 
rubbing his white hands, and giving his dry 
and deprecatory coughs alternately. I have 
tried the deprecatory cough myself, but with 
no success to speak of. Then the field began 
to move faster; the characters on their respec- 
tive gates simply flew past. The traditional 
sailor only just had time to expectorate and 
offer a short prayer for the destruction of his 
vision, before he vanished from my eyes; and 
out of the whirlincr chaos came a flash of bright 



52 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

green bonnet-strings and a shrill cry of "Where's 
that blessed child ?" I knew it was Mrs. Jinkins. 
She had passed in the very act of being amusing 
but not vulgar. The worst, at any rate, was over. 
A second afterward the field stopped short. 

A very pretty girl, with soft dark hair and a 
graceful figure, was sitting on the gate imme- 
diately before me, with a book in her hands. I 
knew her at once. I knew that her ear resem- 
bled a delicate pink sea shell ; I knew that her 
eyelashes must inevitably be long. She was 
the charming innocent type. The hero finds 
her thus in her guileless village simplicity read- 
ing some harmless story, in her inexpensive 
white dress with the knot of common or garden 
geranium at the throat. He startles her as he 
passes, and she drops her book, and he picks it 
up. It is thus that the intimacy begins. She 
is the daughter of the poor vicar and he is the 
scion of a noble house. He has come to the 
village for the sake of rest, or fishing, or sketch- 
ing. Whichever it is, he does it rather better 
than anyone else ; it is a way these heroes 
have. The poor, old, gray-haired vicar goes 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 53 

pottering about his garden, and never sees that 
a train for a three-vokime novel is being laid 
under his very nose. He is devoted, of course, 
to his only daughter, and his blindness pro- 
ceeds partly from the childlike simplicity which 
is natural to these sylvan haunts, but also be- 
cause he must be aware by this time that the 
story could not possibly get on without it. So 
the hero makes love to her, because he is not 
in the least in love with her; and she does not 
make love to him, because she is very much in 
love with him. In this sinful world the heroes 
get most of the undercut. As a rule, he kisses 
her on the eyes and mouth alone ; but the nose 
and back hair are the only parts of a girl's head 
which the hero never kisses. He leaves the 
village, and marries someone else. Then comes 
the breakfast table scene, which we all know and 
hate so well. She takes up the newspaper with 
a merry laugh, and suddenly sees the adver- 
tisement of the hero's marriage. She turns 
deadly pale, grasps the table to save herself 
from falling, and, murmuring that the heat is 
too much for her and that she will be better 



54 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

presently, staggers from the room. The com- 
placency and blandness with which this excuse 
is always received is simply maddening. "Poor 
child !" the vicar murmurs pensively, as he sips 
his last cup of tea, and then goes out to play 
the fool among the azaleas without giving the 
matter another thought. 

If the book is to be sad, she pines and dies; 
if it is to be cheerful, the curate, who has all 
the time adored her in secret, now comes to 
the fore, kisses over the same old ground, and 
finally marries her. 

As I looked at her, I felt sorry for her. I 
determined to give her a little variety in her 
monotonous existence; so I stepped softly up 
to her, took her by the hair, and kissed the tip 
of her nose. There was a whirr and click as of 
machinery set in motion ; then she gave a little 
frightened cry, and fluttered like a bird. I 
might have known it — a kiss is as certain to 
produce this effect on the innocent and auto- 
matic doll of fiction as the placing of a penny 
in the slot is to procure fusees when you want 
wax vestas. 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 55 

There were several other ladies on adjacent 
gates, but I am naturally rather shy, and I did 
not have much conversation with them. One 
was in a riding-habit. She glanced at me with 
evident disapprobation from head to foot, and 
told me that a certain kind of stretcher pre- 
vented the male garment from becoming baggy 
at the fetlocks. I had read "The Stench of 
the Stables," and one or two other sporting 
novels, so I knew that her conversation would 
not be intelligible, and I did not stop to hear 
any more of it. Next to her was the small 
plain governess, who confides to her diary how 
surprised she is that all the male characters fall 
in love with her. It is a pleasing trait in the 
virginal character. 

"I've just made an entry," she said. 

"I don't want to contradict you," I replied, 
"but I fail to understand how you can make 
the entry when you're sitting on the gate." 

She corrected my mistake. "I referred to 
my diary, and not to the field," she answered. 
"I will read it to you." 

I expostulated, but her only reply was to 



56 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



read as follows from a little volume bound in 
morocco : 

"Another hot morning in the schoolroom. 
Edithawas very unruly again, and did not know 
her geography, I hope I was not unkind to 
her, but I was very firm. I told her that she 
must learn it again, and that I would finish cor- 
recting her theme in the meantime. While I 
was engaged thus, Mr. Charles sauntered into 
the schoolroom. I tried to speak quite sharply 
to him, and to tell him that it was not the place 
for him, but I am afraid that my poor little 
voice quavered. He only laughed at me, and 
began putting flies in the inkpot. Then he 
came round behind me and let my hair down. 
'What a little beauty it is!' he said banteringly. 
I told him that if he did not go away I would 
tell Mrs. Beecham. So he retired, walking out 
of the room on his hands. How strong and 
manly he is! Can he possibly see any beauty 
in my poor insignificant face? If only my dear 
Aunt Maria were here to advise me !" 

I thanked her, and passed on until I came to 
the gate which was next the principal entrance. 



THE HUNDRED GATES. 57 



A curate sat upon it. Occasionally he pressed 
his forehead with one hand in a weary way. 
There were dark lines under his eyes, and he 
gazed at me as if I hurt him badly. 

"You were wondering who I am," he said, 
and it was hardly worth while to contradict 
him. "I am the uncommon curate." 

"Then," I said, "you had better get off that 
gate. This field is reserved for commonplace 
characters only." 

"Ah !" he moaned, in a voice so tired that it 
almost seemed to ache, "you don't understand. 
The uncommon curate has now grown more 
common than the other sort. You expect a 
curate to be a good man and a Christian. The 
most commonplace way of avoiding the com- 
monplace is to make him either a murderer or 
an agnostic. It is far from difficult ; a mere 
child can apply it. For myself, I am perfectly 
conscientious and unusually intelligent. That 
is why I took orders without examining the 
faith that I professed to embrace. I'm not a 
Christian now, and my wife won't be an agnos- 
tic. She is pious, but dull — mostly cold mutton 



58 FLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

and hymns. So I've gone and made a nice little 
religion all to myself. Sermons ! I should think 
so — regular stingers I Ah me !" He gave a sigh 
that shook the gate till it rattled. 

I did not see any way to console the poor 
man. I thought of pointing out that those who 
read about him suffered even more than him- 
self, but I was by no means sure how he would 
take it, so I changed the subject. "I see that 
the gate next to you — the principal entrance — 
is vacant. Are you expecting anyone?" 

To my surprise he brightened up at once. 
"Yes," he said, "we've been waiting for you. 
The man who tries to get a cheap reputation 
for wit by sneering at things not worth the 
sneer is the most commonplace character of 
all. Pray be seated." 

I obeyed, because I could not help it, and 
the field at once began to rotate. Faster and 
faster it whirled round. I clung to my gate, 
but known mathematical laws were too much 
for me. I was flung into space, went into 
three volumes, and was much appreciated by 
the public. The surprise awoke me. 



THE SECULAR CONFESSIONAL.* 



* This series is taken from private letters formerly in the 
possession of a First Authority, now deceased. He appointed 
me his literary executor, with instructions to publish nothing. 
Paupertas me impulit. 



I.— THE LAST CHAPTER. 

My Dear Friend and Counselor: 

I wish to consult you once more, and in the 
strictest confidence. I want your advice be- 
cause you are the First Authority on Every- 
thing; I trust you because you are of a truly 
noble nature, and have a due sense of honor, 
and would not make any public use of a 
private letter. 

I am, as you know, a lady writer of ladylike 
stories for children ; and you may be assured 
that when I undertook the serial for The 
Nursery Nightlight this winter, I counted 
upon coming to you in all my difificulties. I 
know that if there is anyone in this world who 
could make my stories for children more lady- 
like than they are at present, it is yourself. 
Some time ago I purchased your manual for lit- 
erary beginners, "How to Avoid Originality: 
By One Who has Done It," and I have found 



62 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

it of immense assistance to me. When I first 
procured it, I was trying to write what I had 
observed or imagined, and was starving in a 
garret. My present position of affluence is 
entirely due to the first aphorism in your book, 
"Pioneering does not pay. Prig and be popu- 
lar." I have prigged. I have skimmed the 
cream of all the most successful stories for chil- 
dren and worked it into my serial in The Nur- 
sery Nightlight. I have wallowed in the faith- 
ful hound, the stolen pencil-case, the child's 
devotions, the incoherent sick-bed. I believe 
in Selection rather than Invention. Thanks 
to your manual, I have done well, exceedingly 
well; my editor is pleased and my readers are 
pleased. But I am rather in doubt about my 
last chapter. Up to that point I followed your 
directions implicitly. My story is called 
"Little Phil." The title was selected in ac- 
cordance with one of your notes on cheap 
advertisement : 

"Let your title be such that a critic may be 
bright about it. He can refrain from noticing 
your book, but he cannot refrain from being 



THE LAST CHAPTER. 63 

bright when he has an easy chance. So shall 
you come to a paragraph." 

Forty-two critics have said that "Little Phil" 
was really a little filling. Thirty-nine of therri 
added that it was, however, a pleasant story, to 
show that they said what they said from wit, 
and not from unkindliness. In my incidents 
and development I obeyed the rules in your 
manual entirely. But now I have come to my 
last chapter. Your aphorism says as follows: 

"If the hero's Christian name be monosyl- 
labic or used in a monosyllabic form, the hero 
dies. To this rule there is no exception. Tim- 
othy may recover; but Tim says, 'I'm going — 
home — home now,' and all is over." 
[^ On the other hand, my editor insists that 
my hero Phil shall not die. He is rather a 
violent man, and he writes to me as follows : 
"I'm not going to ruin my circulation by having 
any deaths in my Christmas Number. You've 
got to be cheerful, or you get no more work 
from me. Do you understand that?" Now I 
am in doubt whether to follow your advice or 
his order. Is any compromise possible? 



64 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



The circumstances are these : There is a 
brutal, drunken cabman in my story, whose 
horse runs away with him, because he has 
beaten it unmercifully. Little Phil sees it tear- 
ing down the street, and tries to stop it. The 
noble and intelligent horse avoids treading on 
the poor boy, who had never done it any harm ; 
but one wheel of the cab goes over him and 
breaks his spine in five different places. He 
staggers to his feet, and exclaims dizzily: "I 
am afraid that I am badly hurt." Then he 
swoons away in the arms of the "good, kind 
lady" (she is No. 185 in your list of useful types). 
He is taken to the hospital and is undoubtedly 
very ill. At times he is unconscious, and talks 
about the gates of the west. I have found two 
of your aphorisms most useful: 

"Invalids in fiction eat grapes and jelly — 
nothing else. Their drink is 'cooling drink.' 
No one knows what it is, and no one wants to 
know. But give it them. The public ex- 
pects it." 

"Do not trouble to be medically possible. 
The public knows nothing of medical science. 



THE LAST CHAPTER. 65 

No known anaesthetic, for instance, takes effect 
with the speed of the fictional chloroformed 
handkerchief." 

I must also express my obligations to your 
list of the six diseases which alone are men- 
tioned in stories, together with the mental 
qualities attached to each. Phil's uncle has 
gout, and is selfish and cynical ; his sister has 
consumption, and is pious ; and his own spinal 
complaint is, of course, accompanied by cour- 
age and resignation. But what am I to do 
about the last chapter? By your rules, Phil 
must die. On the other hand, the editor says 
that he must live. 

Please keep this appeal to you a secret. M)^ 
editor would not forgive me if he got to hear of 
it ; and my public would cease to believe in me. 
It will break my heart if I have to let Phil live. 
Can I get out of it? 



II.— BROKEN HEARTS. 

\The following two papers , from the collection of the First 
Authority, seem to treat of the same subject; they are fastened 
together by a pin. The opening sentences of the first letter were 
partially destroyed by fire; perhaps some critic will kindly restore 
them.] 

(I.) ... to forgive . . . azaleas . . . 
blushed slightly. He said several absurdly 
complimentary things, remarking that I had 
just the grace and delicacy of the flowers. I 
pleaded that they were already withered, but 
he said it was for their dear associations that he 
wanted them ; so I gave them to him. I can- 
not remember quite when he began to call me 
Blanche ; it had been going on some time before 
I noticed it, — at least he said so, — or I should 
certainly have stopped him. I am perfectly 
sure that he would have proposed to me there 
and then, if the others had not happened to 
come out on the balcony and interrupt us; of 
course I should have refused him, but it would 



BROKEN HEARTS. 67 

have been difficult to make him understand that 
I had not really encouraged him — that I had 
never wanted him to hope — that I had acted 
simply from a natural kindliness of disposition. 
As it is, every day I am in mortal terror that he 
will call and rush upon his doom. I am not a 
flirt, thank Heaven ! I do not plead guilty to 
anything in the remotest degree resembling 
flirtation ; but I am full of natural kindliness, 
and if it is a fault to indulge a generous dis- 
position, then I confess that I have committed 
that fault. I should tell you that I never 
called him Reginald once— except twice under 
strong provocation. Always Mr. Blubuck. 

I am so miserable. I cannot help imagining 
how he will look when I refuse him. He has 
remarkably fine eyes, and he can make them 
unspeakably pathetic. His voice will drop to a 
hoarse whisper. I know he will be immensely 
overcome; he has just the nature that feels 
things deeply, and I am sure he never loved 
any woman before. I cannot help thinking 
that, without intending any harm at all, I have 
broken a strong man's heart. The rest of his 



68 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

life will be spent in loneliness. I should not 
wonder if he were driven to some rash act, or 
even lost his reason. I have indulged my 
native generosity some twenty or thirty times 
before, but this is the first time that I have had 
to confess that in consequence I have spoiled 
a noble human life. 

I only wish that before I met Reginald I had 
come across your excellent shilling manual on 
"The Relationship of the Sexes: By a Bach- 
elor of Sixty Years' Standing." The chapter 
on balconies would have warned me. "There 
is only one step from the Balcony to the Altar," 
you remark; and in another place, "Moonlight 
lowers the standard of feminine reserve." It 
was in the moonlight that I called him Regi- 
nald. Truly we are the slaves of the influences 
of time and place. "There is no historical in- 
stance," you point out, "of a woman who 
flirted at breakfast ; if life were all breakfast, 
passionless affection would be possible between 
the young of opposite sexes." Why — oh, why 
— did I not meet Reginald at breakfast only ! 
I should not have had to reproach myself, as 



BROKEN HEARTS. 69 

I shall have to reproach myself now, with hav- 
ing ruined his life and career, and completely 
broken his heart. But we never breakfasted to- 
gether — and we did sit out together. Every 
girl should possess a copy of your manual; the 
concentrated wisdom which you have wrung 
from your forty-seven engagements, subse- 
quently broken, is not to be despised. But 
you are wrong on one small point. You say, 
"Women who are very fond of the smell of gar- 
denia mostly go to the limit." That is absurd ; 
I am very fond of the smell of gardenia myself. 
Well, it has been some small consolation to 
confess my wrongdoing to you, if indeed I have 
been wrong, and not, as I think, merely mis- 
taken. In any case, 

I remain, yours in deepest penitence, 

Blanche Sunningvale. 

(II.) Dear First Authority: lam thor- 
oughly ashamed of myself, and I want to say 
so to somebody. You must know that there's 
rather a pretty little thing, called Blanche 
Sunningvale, who has been crossing my path a 



70 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

good deal lately. She's not quite a beauty, but 
distinctly provocante. Well, I did my best to 
amuse myself and her; and I am afraid now 
that the thing has gone rather beyond amuse- 
ment. In fact, if I had not cleared out, she 
would have married me, as sure as my name is 
Reginald Blubuck. As far as money and that 
kind of thing is concerned, she is all right ; but 
I could not marry her, and it is of no use to 
think about it. Things came to a climax the 
other night ; she got me out on to the balcony, 
and there was the old business that one has 
been through hundreds of times. The pace 
was good. I am not a vain man, but she called 
me by my first name, and made it fairly obvi- 
ous what she expected ; women do take things 
so seriously. I might have said anything, if 
we had not been interrupted. 

The game was not fair. She, poor child, had 
obviously never done anything of the kind be- 
fore ; I — well, I'm a man of the world, you 
know. Yet I have my feelings. I am haunted 
by a persistent vision of Blanche sitting alone 
in her own room, with tears in her eyes, wonder- 



BROKEN HEARTS. 7 1 

ing why I do not call, growing gradually hope- 
less, heartbroken. I can imagine her eyes ; she 
can make them look very mournful and sweet. 
She will never, I know, marry anyone else ; she 
is just the kind of woman that loves once and 
once only ; I only hope that she may not be 
driven to desperation or madness. She would, 
I am quite sure, take no one into her confi- 
dence ; I do not mind writing to you, but 
Blanche is far too shy to speak or write of such 
things to anyone. It is an awful thing to think 
that one has taken advantage of the simplicity 
of a good woman to break her heart. 

Why are you so desperately cynical.^ I have 
just been reading your little manual on "The 
Relationship of the Sexes." You say, " In an af- 
fair of the heart, the impression which the man 
believes he has made on the woman is always 
identical with the impression that the woman 
believes she has made on the man ; provided 
that, as usually happens, both beliefs are inac- 
curate. For conceit is of humanity, not of 
sex." That's nonsense. But you are right 
about the gardenias ; Blanche adored the smell 



72 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 



of them. I am honestly sorry about that girl. 
I know that I must have hurt her terribly — in 
all probability spoiled her life. 

Yours in deepest remorse, 

Reginald Blubuck. 



III.— THE MURDER AT EUSTON. 

[On the margin of this letter the First Authority had written 
in pencil : " The execution was shockingly bungled."] 

My Dear First Authority: 

I think I knew what was wrong with me, 
even before I studied your last book, "The Art 
of Silence: A Hand-book for Conversation- 
alists." Even before I read your chapter 
on "Repeaters," I knew that I suffered from 
the vice of repetition. I knew that if I said 
a thing once, it was fated that I should say 
it twice, possibly thrice. It is too late now 
for repentance to be of any real use, but 
I wish I could have followed your advice 
then. I did not believe then that the ability 
to interchange thoughts was the curse of the 
human race ; I thought you were wrong when 
you said that it was chiefly the gift of articulate 
speech which prevented man from rising to the 
level of the pig; in short, I considered your 



74 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

praise of silence to be quite excessive and exag- 
gerated. Do you remember the first sentence 
of your book : "To talk well is to be admired ; 
to listen well is to be loved." I read it, but 
preferred to be "admired at whatever cost. I 
am a Repeater, and the only remedy for Re- 
peaters is, as you say, everlasting silence. 
Well, I am likely to get the everlasting silence 
now. I will tell you how it happened. And 
I must first of all explain why I stole A.'s 
epigram. 

A. undoubtedly has wit, if you can give him 
time and he can manipulate the conversation 
until he gets his opportunity, and he never re- 
peats himself or anyone else. And yet he is 
one of those for whom you would prescribe 
everlasting silence, because he has not got the 
Conversational Manner. He goes on well until 
he has got his opportunity and brought out 
his epigram ; then he at once, like lightning, 
assumes the appearance of a stuffed toad with 
glass eyes three sizes too big for it, and a guilty 
conscience. Well, A. lives in Edinburgh, and 
one night when I was dining with him there 



THE MURDER AT E US TON. 75 



he brought out the very best epigram I had ever 
heard from him. The lead-up to it was superb. 
He started on public swimming baths, and got 
by seventeen perfectly natural steps to the 
subject of the epigram, which was on match- 
boxes. I traced it out afterward. The epigram 
was, of course, ruined by the fact that A. has 
no Conversational Manner. He has not the 
trick of saying a thing. So I told him that I 
did not think much of his little joke. 

On my return from Edinburgh I stopped for 
one night at the house of my friend B. at 
Carlisle. B. does not converse ; but he talks a 
little and listens brilliantly. I played off A.'s 
epigram on him as my own. B. laughed for 
three hours consecutively and said it was the 
best thing that he had ever heard in his life. 
He wrote it down in a notebook. 

I then went on to London, and there one 
afternoon C. called on me at my chambers. I 
repeated the epigram, as my own, to C. He 
had hysterics from sheer delight. He rolled on 
the floor. "It's the wittiest thing that has ever 
been said. It cant have been impromptu," he 



7& PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

remarked. "It was^' I replied. "I'm not in 
the habit of repeating things." I looked hurt, 
and I felt hurt. A perfectly true accusation 
always hurts. 

"Anyhow," C. said, "it will be something to 
tell B. to-morrow. I'm going up to Carlisle to- 
night by the express, you know. Of course, I 
will give you all the credit of it, but I positively 
must tell B. that impromptu." 

I shuddered. At whatever cost, C. had to 
be prevented from repeating that epigram to B. 

"Why," C. went on, "I'm going on to Edin- 
burgh the day afterward, and then I shall have 
a chance of telling old A. as well." 

It sounded simple enough. It meant, of 
course, that if he was allowed to do what he 
wanted, all three of them. A., B., and C. would 
have the fixed idea for the remainder of their 
lives that I was a thief, a liar, and a fool. I 
resorted to strategy, and asked C. to dine with 
me at the club. It was my intention to keep 
him there by some means or other until he was 
too late for the north express. I remembered 
that C. was an ardent politician. "Gladstone's 



THE MURDER AT EUSTON. 77 

dining with me to-night, and you'll meet him." 
I should mention that I have not the honor of 
being acquainted in the slightest degree with 
Mr. Gladstone. It had never occurred to me 
before that he was a living man. I had always 
regarded him as a tendency — something, not 
ourselves, that made for Home Rule. But 
now I saw that he was a human attraction. 
"Really?" said C, a little incredulously, I 
thought. "Yes," I said meditatively, "I've 
known him for some time. But do as you like 
about coming. Ruskin will probably look in 
after dinner. But do just as you like." In my 
determination to save my conversational repu- 
tation I was getting, perhaps, a little wild. But 
C. is simple-minded, and accepted. 

I exhausted myself that night with my ex- 
cuses for Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Ruskin, and 
with my endeavors to detain C. But he would 
not be detained. He had brought his port- 
manteau with him to the club, and was intend- 
ing to drive straight to Euston. I offered, 
finally, to go with him, and managed to get to 
the cab first. " Here are two sovereigns," I said 



78 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

in a hurried whisper to the cabman, "Nozv, miss 
the train that my friend tells you to catchy 

But after we had run into the third omnibus 
C. insisted on getting out and taking another 
cab. We had plenty of time at Euston. By 
means of more bribery and strategy I managed 
to get C. and his portmanteau thrust into some 
local train that went to nowhere-in-particular. 
I even had him locked in. But an idiot of an 
inspector came and bundled him out again. I 
entreated C. not to go on to Carlisle; I told 
him that I had a presentiment that harm would 
come of it. He laughed at me. "No," he said, 
"I must tell B. and A. that impromptu of 
yours." He was standing on the edge of the 
platform at the time, and a train was just 
steaming in. The least shove did it. The rest 
you have probably gathered from the news- 
papers. To you only have I told my real 
motive. I am the victim of conversation. 
Yours unhappily, 

A Repeater. 



IV.— BAD HABITS. 

My Dear First Authority: 

I cannot tell you how impressed I was by your 
"Bad Habits, and How to Form Them." It is 
quite the most moral book that has been written 
for some time. The greatest virtue, as you well 
maintain, is the resistance to the greatest temp- 
tation ; the greatest temptation is that which 
results from a bad habit long continued. The 
man who has never smoked has no claim upon 
our admiration ; the man who has long been in 
the habit of smoking from early morn to dewy 
eve, and then relinquishes the practice — such a 
one is worthy of election to a County Council, 
of a biography, of a real marble tombstone, of 
all honor. As I read, I saw how wrong I had 
been all my life. I had never formed any bad 
habits ; consequently my virtue had nothing to 
work upon. One cannot fight when there is 
nothing with which to fight ; one cannot conquer 
when there is absolutely nothing to conquer. 



8o PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

I saw that what I wanted, in order to make my- 
self more perfect, was a few besetting sins ; then 
I could exercise my will-force. 

Long ago, in my childhood's days. Humility 
claimed me for her own. I was not ambitious. 
I did not want to commence with the greatest 
and grandest sins, such as arson, or harmonium- 
playing, or high treason. I turned modestly to 
your chapter on "Minor Vices," which you 
especially recommended to young criminals just 
learning their business. For some time I hesi- 
tated which of your list to choose. At first I 
tried two at once — your list, you remember, was 
in alphabetical order — back-biting, and break- 
fasting-in-pyjamas. Well, sir, it may have been 
my stupidity, or it may have been my congeni- 
tal innocence, but I found I could not manage 
these two sins simultaneously. They confused 
me. On the very first day I found myself 
breakfast-biting and backing into my pj^jamas. 
To prevent further complications, I gave up 
these two offenses and selected one good, plain, 
ordinary vice — the vice of reading-in-bed. 

I followed your directions implicitly. There 



BAD HABITS. 8 1 



were no curtains to my bed, but I had some put 
up, and especially ordered that they should be 
of a light and inflammable material. Then I 
put two lighted candles close to the curtains, 
opened my window and door in order to secure 
a draught, and began to read. After a time I 
let the book drop from my hands, and fell 
asleep. In one hour I ought to have waked up 
and found the room full of smoke, to have ex- 
tinguished with difificulty the smoldering cur- 
tains, and seen the evil of my ways. However, 
I never got any conflagration at all. Time 
after time I did my utmost to be careless and 
thoughtless; I always used candles, although 
there is gas in my room ; I took no end of 
trouble about it. But I never could get the evil 
results. Those curtains might have been made 
of twopenny cigars ; they seemed absolutely in- 
combustible. Neither could I manage to suffer 
from want of sleep, for I have not been able to 
find any book which will keep me awake for 
three minutes after I get into bed. Now, sir, it 
is not worth while to battle with a habit which 
cannot be bad because it produces no bad re- 



82 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

suits whatever. Besides, it is a habit which 
absolutely refuses to be formed ; if I am very 
sleepy I do not always remember to take a book 
to bed with me, and I have frequently forgot- 
ten to forget to put the candles out. Briefly, I 
cannot display any virtues, or exercise any 
will-force, by fighting against a bad habit which 
is, in my case, neither bad nor habitual. 

So at present my will-force is doing abso- 
lutely nothing, eating its head off. I want to 
break myself of something. I feel sure that I 
shall never really be virtuous until I can over- 
come a bad habit, and I find myself utterly un- 
able to form a bad habit. My natural inclina- 
tions are all good. Tobacco and drink are re- 
pulsive to me and make me ill; I am unable to 
get any interest out of gambling. I cannot tell 
a lie; George Washington suffered in just the 
same way. But why should I particularize 
further? Isolated faults I may occasionally 
commit, but in spite of your excellent manual I 
cannot form a bad habit. 

Yours in despair, 

Initials Blank. 



BAD HABITS. 83 



P. S. — Immediately after writing the above, 
I turned once more to your manual, and there 
for the first time came across your advice to 
the desperate cases: "If you cannot acquire a 
bad habit in any other way, imagine that you 
have it and are trying to give it up." I acted 
upon this advice. Three weeks have elapsed 
since then. I am now a slave to the practice 
of opium eating, and habitually untruthful. 
My virtue at last has something upon which to 
work, and life is once more bright and happy. 
The highest moral perfection may yet be mine. 
Allow me to offer you my sincerest thanks. 



v.— THE PROCESSIONAL INSTINCT. 

My Dear First Authority : 

In one of the chapters of your interesting 
little "Curiosities of Humanity," you point out 
that our private life is circular, and our public 
life is rectilineal. The curate and the choir are 
grouped carelessly in the seclusion of the ves- 
try, but tread the aisle in an arranged proces- 
sion. The twelve policemen who form a con- 
stellation in the station yard walk in regular 
file in the street. The marriages and funerals 
of humanity involve processions, because they 
are public ; betrothals and deathbeds involve 
no such arrangement, because they are private. 
The circus in its own tent, partially secluded 
—only to be seen by those who have paid en- 
trance money — is circular, as, indeed its name 
implies; but when it is most truly public and 
may be seen of all, it is prolonged and proces- 
sional. And then you go on to speak of the 



THE PROCESSIONAL INSTINCT. 85 

processional instinct ; you say that it may grow 
upon a man and choke all higher motives. 
Read, then, the story of one who illustrates 
the truth of every word that you have said. 

I am a young man, and I have much leisure 
time on my hands. Seated one day, a year 
ago, at my window, I saw a girls' school pass 
down the street. They walked two and two. 
Stately and slow they proceeded. The proud, 
ugly mistress made glorious the close of that 
long line. She held her parasol almost defi- 
antly, and her spectacles flashed and flashed. 
For some time after they had gone I sat and 
mused ; later in the day I went out and joined 
our volunteers. I did not know why I joined 
them ; I thought that I wanted to do some- 
thing for my country, and also to exercise my- 
self ; I know now what the reason was. It was 
the ignoble processional instinct asserting itself. 
It poisons everything that I do ; it has de- 
stroyed every noble motive within me. I am 
not worthy to be a man at all ; I ought to have 
been born a panorama. 

What was it made me agree to assist in the 



S6 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

collection of the offertory in church? It was 
the processional instinct. What was it that 
made me take an active part in our local poli- 
tics? Once more it was the processional in- 
stinct. I walked up the chancel to slow music ; 
I careered in a carriage with a banner in front 
of me and a brass band behind me. It was 
complete rapture. I glowed, expanded, and 
almost purred ; I knew that the eyes of my 
native village were upon me and I enjoyed it 
thoroughly. I thought then that I was work- 
ing for the Church and my political party ; I de- 
luded myself. Unconsciously I was giving way 
to that mean and unworthy motive, the proces- 
sional instinct. About this time I spent one 
penny on an illustrated account of the Lord 
Mayor's Show, and read it in secret. How I 
envied him ! Slowly I began to realize what 
was wrong with me. I thought what a beauti- 
ful word cortege was, and introduced it into 
every private letter that I wrote. I bought an 
expensive picture of a conquering army enter- 
ing a captured town, because there was a dis- 
tinct similarity between my face and the face of 



THE PROCESSIONAL INSTINCT. 87 

the conqueror's horse. I gazed often at that 
picture, murmuring under my breath, "A mag- 
nificent pageant !" I imagined that I was pranc- 
ing brightly at the front of it. I was now a 
complete processomaniac, a victim to cortege 
craving. Whenever I got a chance of pro- 
ceeding, I always availed myself of it eagerly. 
One day I had just been reading an account 
of a fashionable wedding. It said that the sun- 
light streamed in at the stained windows, and, 
as the happy procession passed up the flower- 
strewn aisle, the grand old organ pealed forth 
the beautiful wedding march. I put down the 
newspaper, walked over to the piano, and picked 
out a portion of the wedding march with one fin- 
ger ; then a sort of paroxysm came over me. I 
put on my hat and rushed out into the street. 
I ordered a pearly gray suit, with silk facings 
and buttons that would reflect the joyful sun- 
light. Then I careered out of the tailor's, and, 
after some difficulty, found Amabel Stoker. I 
talked of indifferent matters to her for a few 
moments, and then I asked her if she would 
marry me. I did not say that I loved her, be- 



88 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

cause I did not think it would seem probable 
enough. She answered shyly : "Yes, I think so. 
Have I been weak? Have I allowed you to 
guess the feelings of my heart?" I encouraged 
her a little, and left her. The wedding took 
place a month afterward ; my new clothes fitted 
me perfectly ; it was a glorious procession. As 
I got into the carriage with her to drive back 
from the church, I said: "I enjoyed that. I 
should like to do that every day of my Hfe." 
She replied : "Ah, but it was a great trial to 
poor, little, nervous me I" Then she did up her 
face into kinks to make it look more childishly 
winsome. I mention this to explain that we 
were never very well suited to each other; in 
fact, we are not at present on good terms at all. 
I had simply married to satisfy my processional 
instinct. I am very much ashamed of myself. 
Since then I have had very few opportunities 
to indulge myself, but one has little processions 
from the drawing room to the dining room be- 
fore dinner, and these help to brighten my 
existence. Processions alone have any charm 
for me now, and I am thinking of buying a cir- 



THE PROCESSIONAL INSTINCT. 89 

cus and taking it round the district. Amabel 
says that if I do she shall refuse to come with 
me ; which is another argument in favor of the 
plan. I have promised her a capital funeral, 
but she is selfish about this point. I have noth- 
ing to say for myself; I am enslaved and worth- 
less. I desire, however, that you will destroy 
this letter after reading it, as I do not wish the 
facts to be generally known. 
Yours, etc., 

Algernon Mumplin. 



VI.— BINLEY'S CIGARS. 
My Dear Sir: 

I am acquainted with you through your capi- 
tal handbook "The Complete Liar." In it you 
point out that the last two things about which 
a man begins to be truthful are his wine and his 
tobacco. I can almost fancy that you must 
have heard my friend Binley talk about his 
grocer's amontillado ; as for the tobacco, it is my 
belief that the recording angel shed tears over 
the invention of the cigar; Binley is just as 
imaginative about his cigars as about his wine. 
He is monstrous. His sins cry out for confes- 
sion, and I long to confess them to somebody. 
"Never," you remark in your "Curiosities of 
Humanity," "does a man feel more pure and 
clean than when he is confessing the sins of his 
intimate friend" ; you are right there. At this 
moment, when I am about to narrate the mon- 
strous conduct of Alexander Binley, I feel like 



BINLEY'S CIGARS. 



a virginal lily growing in the snow-covered 
garden of a young laundress. 

Well, sir, it began one night in Binley's 
rooms, when he produced and put upon the 
table a box containing twenty-five of the largest 
cigars that I have ever seen in my life. They 
were the kind of cigar that could only be 
smoked by the corpulent lessee of a music hall 
while in the act of wearing a diamond center 
stud. There were several of us there, and we 
looked at those cigars suspiciously. 

"Are those cigars?" asked Drisfield sadly. 

"What did you think they were?" retorted 
Binley, preparing to be offended. 

"I hoped they were just a horrid dream." 

"Oh, you did, did you? Perhaps you'll allow 
me to tell you a thing or two about these 
cigars." 

"Do," said Drisfield, "only — only make it 
end happily if you can. And would you mind 
if I sat somewhere where I couldn't see them? 
They get on my nerves." 

Drisfield and Binley are always about to- 
gether, but they are never decently civil to 



92 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

each other. They have been intimate enemies 
for the last ten years. Drisfield is inclined to 
be a little pessimistic. "I associate with Bin- 
ley," he has frequently explained to me in 
Binley's presence, "because he is a living con- 
firmation of all the saddest opinions concerning 
human nature." 

On this occasion, Binley talked at length 
about these cigars. There was no such thing, 
he informed us, as a bad cigar in the extra sizes ; 
those who bought cheap cigars always inquired 
for the smallest sizes, and manufacturers acted 
accordingly. These were not Havana cigars; 
the Havana fields were effete, and the crops 
were tainted from the use of manures; these 
were from virgin fields in Jamaica. Then Bin- 
ley handed them round ; we all happened to 
be smoking pipes at the time, and had to refuse 
them. We all, with the exception of Drisfield, 
thanked him courteously. 

"The taste of them is perfectly heavenly," 
said Binley, who had just lighted one. 

"And the smell of them is perfectly devilish," 
said Drisfield. "Life is full of such paradoxes." 



BINLEY'S CIGARS. 93 

Three weeks after this I happened to be 
again in Binley s rooms. He has no memory, 
and just as I was leaving he produced that 
very identical box of misfortunes once more. 
"Smoke one of these on your way back," he 
said. "They are from Mexico — the home of 
the mustang, and the finest tobacco-growing 
country in the world." It hardly seemed 
worth while to call him a liar. I slipped one of 
the large cigars into my pocket, and thanked 
him. When I got home I flung it into the fire- 
place. The fire was out, and on the following 
morning I found that my servant had picked 
out the cigar, dusted it, and placed it on the 
mantelpiece. It lay there like a vast, un- 
healthy threat. I carried it into my bedroom, 
with a vague notion that it might be useful in 
case of burglary. 

When Binley came to see me some time 
afterward, I fetched out his own cigar and 
offered it to him. "I know you like the large 
sizes," I said. 

"Ah, yes," he answered pleasantly, "you are 
thinking of the weeds my uncle in India sent 



94 PLA Y THINGS AXD PARODIES. 

me. India produces the very cream of cigars, 
of course." He held the big cigar up to his ear 
and rolled it meditatively between his finger and 
thumb. "You'll excuse me," he said, "but this 
is not quite in condition yet. I can't smoke a 
cigar that is not in condition. Those large 
Indian cigars of mine were the '85 crop." 

I tried him with the same cigar again three 
days afterward, having cut one inch off the end 
of it with a sharp knife in order to alter its 
appearance. This time he found it to be in 
perfect condition. But he would not smoke it. 
"I still have a few left," he said, "from a box of 
twenty-five which originally belonged to Bis- 
marck, and were given by him to a cousin of 
mine in the diplomatic service. They are three 
inches longer than these, and they spoil me for 
all other cigars. They are — well, they are 
imperial." Binley has no memory and no con- 
science. I cut one more inch off that cigar and 
offered it to him again when I found an oppor- 
tunity. Before lighting it he told me that he 
had just two left from a box of twenty-five 
which had paid no duty. "I forget the name of 



BINLEV'S CIGARS. 95 

the brand," he said, "but they are three times 
the size of this. They are reserved by the 
Havana planters for their own use, but an 
elder brother of mine got hold of them through 
a Creole woman who was — well — rather de- 
voted to him ; and he smuggled them across — 
he's rather a devil, I'm afraid." Binley lit that 
remnant of his own cigar, took three draws, and 
then put it down. "I'm sorry," he said, "but 
those weeds of mine have created in me a sort 
of distaste for ordinary tobacco. Don't be 
offended." Comment is useless; but I may 
add that before Binley commenced the habit 
of smoking, he was fairlj^ truthful. I have 
since joined an anti-tobacco league. 
Faithfully yours, 

Pseudonymous. 



VII.— THE VICTIM OF INDI- 
RECTNESS. 

[/ have thought it advisable to omit certaiti portions of this 
Utter. I have added a note in parenthesis zvkerever I have 
made such omissions.'] 

My Dear First Authority.- 

I cannot help thinking that the author of 
"Curiosities of Humanity" must be interested in 
the exceedingly strange story which I have to 
tell. For me, I fear that the story has ended 
fatally ; to others it would perhaps serve as a 
warning, but do not let it be made public. 

I suffer, sir, and have always suffered, from 
the sin of Indirectness. My process is always 
a curve — never a straight line. I attach im- 
mense importance to the means and generally 
miss the end. There are people who, if they 
had a piece of bad news to tell a given man C, 
would ask A. to tell B. to break it to him ; there 
are men who will buy a clumsy piece of mech- 
anism to perform some action — such as the 



THE VICTIM OF INDIRECTNESS. 97 

making of the cigarette — which can be done 
much more easily and quickly by the common 
human fingers. If they were traveling from 
London to the North Pole, they would go via 
the Equator. These are lesser instances of 
that same Indirectness which has brought me 
to a condition that may fairly be described as 
desperate. 

You must know, sir, that the only woman 
who has ever really touched my heart is Ara- 
bella Lee. Of her personal appearance I can 
only say that {a column and a half is omitted 
here. The reader can flavor to suit J lis own 
taste). Can you wonder at the effect that such 
a woman would have on my very deepest feel- 
ings? When the Mushleys asked me to their 
place in September, I asked them to let me 
leave it open for a few days — an impertinence 
which is not uncommon among the Indirect — 
in order that I might first find out whether 
Miss Lee would be there. I found that Miss 
Lee would be staying at the house, and then I 
accepted. There are three Miss Mushleys — 
Mary, Martha, and Margaret. They are much 



98 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

alike. Each is angular and spectacled, looks 
like the rough sketch of a scientific diagram, 
and has a complexion like a bath towel. 

I had not stopped in that house for a week, 
before I found out that, in consequence of my 
Indirectness, the one person to whom I could 
not declare my passion for Miss Lee was Miss 
Lee herself. I could have told anyone else 
about it. I could even have confided in the 
butler, who was friendly, as butlers go. But I 
could not bring myself to tell Miss Lee herself. 
One day I saw her petting a collie — she is fond 
of dogs — and I noticed that she kissed it on the 
neck. The coUie went out into the garden, and 
a minute or two afterward I followed it. It 
pleased my Indirectness to think that I could 
kiss the same dog on the same spot that she 
had kissed. I tracked the beast into the 
stables. The temper of collies is proverbially 
uncertain — or, perhaps, I got hold of the wrong 
dog — but anyhow {a few lines of quite unneces- 
sary detail are omitted here). I had them re- 
paired by the local tailor, but he did not make 
a good job of it. 



THE VICTIM OF INDIRECTNESS. 99 

On the last day but one of my visit Miss 
Mary Mushley and myself were down to break- 
fast rather earlier than most of them. We wan- 
dered out in the garden, and I experienced a 
desire to confide to Miss Mary Mushley my 
passion for Miss Arabella Lee. The inevitable 
result followed. I was very incoherent and 
indirect, and I was badly misunderstood. I 
can just remember her saying, "Yes, Charles, I 
will marry you; I have always loved you." 
But 1 had presence of mind enough to ask her 
to say nothing to anyone at present, and then 
I went back to the house. It was awful. 
Partly from Indirectness and partly from ordi- 
nary civility I had engaged myself to the wrong 
woman. I determined to ask Martha Mushley 
to tell her sister Mary of the mistake. I felt 
quite unable to tell Mary myself. 

In the afternoon, when the men were all out, 
I managed to get Miss Martha Mushley alone 
in the billiard room. When our game was over 
I began my explanation : 

"I am afraid that this morning I led your 
sister Mary to believe that I loved her. Much 



loo PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

as I admire her, I do not love her. I was only 
trying to confide to her my passion for another 
— you must know — you must have seen whom 
I " 

"Oh, my poor, dear boy !" she murmured. 
"Yes, I knew it all along. Yet can such joy be 
mine? Oh, to be loved by you, Charles, my 
Charles " 

"Yes," I gasped, "you've got it. Keep our 
secret." 

I got out of the room somehow. My nerve 
was all gone, and I felt desperate. After din- 
ner I found myself in the conservatory with 
the third sister, Margaret. I tried to tell her 
what had happened ; she burst into tears ; and 
before I knew where I was, I had asked her to 
marry me and she had accepted. During the 
rest of that evening I suffered great agonies. 
It may be a fine thing to be engaged to the one 
woman whom you love. But I, sir, am en- 
gaged, under the bond of secrecy, to a syndi- 
cate ! Three white handkerchiefs were waved 
at me from three different windows as I drove 
away early on the following morning. 



THE VICTIM OF INDIRECTNESS. loi 

But that is not the worst of it. I feel that I 
have lost Arabella Lee. I can imagine even 
now that I see her, she is {anotJtcr cohmin of 
description is here omitted). And she will hear 
of my conduct toward the three Mushley girls, 
and despise me. I hesitate between suicide, 
a cattle ranch, or a Carmelite brotherhood. 
Even in my misery my Indirectness follows 
me. Can you suggest anything? 

Yours in desperation, 

Charles Ginlake. 



SKETCHES IN LONDON. 



I.— UNDER THE CLOCK. 

One railway station is very much like an- 
other. They are of different sizes but of the 
same quality, and the likeness extends even to 
small details. There is probably not a single 
station in the kingdom on the platform of which 
there are not at this moment two or more milk 
cans standing. I have no statistics on the sub- 
ject, and I may be wrong, but that is my im- 
pression. There is even a distinct similarity 
between all porters ; their voices are all husky 
and confidential, and it is easy to see why this 
must be so. Of course some stations have dis- 
tinctive features. Waterloo and Willesden, for 
instance, are remarkable for their structural 
subtleties. Charing Cross is a favorite meeting- 
place. It is central and convenient in some 
respects, but better meeting-places might be 
found. If, instead of waiting under the clock, 
one waited in the very center of the road out- 



lo6 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

side the station, one would be only a little more 
in the way of other people. 

But it would be inaccurate to say that there 
is nothing to interest or occupy the mind while 
waiting at Charing Cross, although much de- 
pends on the mind. "The proper study of 
mankind is man," and there are plenty of men 
and other automatic machines on the platform. 
One or two of these latter are a little curious. 
One machine delivers four different photo- 
graphs, but it is impossible to say which of the 
four it will deliver next. You may get a pho- 
tograph, I noticed, of the Princess of Wales, or 
you may get one of Miss Bessie Bellwood. I 
thought — it may have been fancy — that I de- 
tected a smile on the slot of this machine. An 
automatic "Oracle" is an appeal from modern 
civilization to ancient superstition. It pro- 
fesses to answer any question you may select 
from a number printed upon it. I gave it a 
penny, and it at once told me a distinct lie, and 
told it without a blush. It is an immoral ma- 
chine, and its charge is far too high. I have 
had a better lie told me by a human boy. 



UNDER A CLOCK. 107 



simply for the small profit which is to be made 
by the sale of one half-penny paper. 

Every crowd in London is interesting, but the 
crowd at a railway station reveals most of its 
real nature. If you would see a man as he 
really is, see him when he is trying to catch a 
train, or when he has just missed it. The 
lounger in Piccadilly, the theatrical personage in 
the Strand, the journalist in Fleet Street, the 
Jew in Whitechapel, all hide something from 
us. But the test of the railway station puts 
aside the veil; and if the man is by nature 
mean, or impolite, or bad-tempered, his weak- 
ness or his baseness is revealed. It is useless 
to attempt an estimate of any man's character 
from his deliberate actions; look at him when 
he is in a hurry, or when he is irritated. Put 
him in a crowd in front of a booking-office 
with two minutes in which to catch the last 
train ; or leave him on the platform from which 
the last train has just retired. A woman does 
not generally look her best when she is hurried. 
But the ordinary passenger allows little time 
for the abominably curious to become inter- 



Io8 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

ested in him. Before we can conjecture where 
he comes from, or whither he is going, or why 
he is doing it, he vanishes from our sight. We 
have more time to watch those who have made 
appointments under the clock, who wander 
backward and forward from the hotel to the 
road, and from the road to the hotel, pondering 
upon the sins of unpunctuality and untruthful- 
ness, or seduced into buying books which they 
do not want from the stall behind them. If 
ever I write a book, I should like one of the 
young men at the Charing Cross bookstall to re- 
view it in one or more of our leading journals, 
and to have an interest in its sale. It is a great 
consolation when one is waiting to see that oth- 
ers have to wait as well ; but it is maddening to 
find that others have not to wait so long. A 
respectable, middle-aged City man came here 
five minutes ago. I know nothing of him ex- 
cept that he only had to wait five minutes, and 
I have had to wait twenty-five ; but that is 
enough. I hate him, and desire his blood. 
One notices the gradual change in a man's ex- 
pression as he waits here. He looks brisk and 



UNDER A CLOCK. ' 109 

bright as he enters the station. He glances at 
the clock, and finds that he is three minutes too 
early. He does not mind waiting three min- 
utes. He lights a cigarette, buys a latest edi- 
tion, and hurries through the news. He has 
plenty of time, if he only knew it, to learn the 
greater part of that paper by heart. But he 
does not know it ; he has a simple faith that 
the other man will come at the time appointed. 
Gradually his brightness changes to irritation. 
Twenty minutes have passed, and the irritation 
becomes dejection. Ten minutes afterward he 
walks out of the station, filled with impotent 
wrath and wild despair. Two minutes after 
that, the man for whom he was waiting turns 
up. It is in this wa)^ that cynics are made. 
The clock at Charing Cross probably has very 
few delusions — it sees so much. 

I have tried occasionally to conjecture from 
the man who waits the sex and appearance of 
the person who is to meet him ; and, as a gen- 
eral rule, I have been wrong. Three men, who 
were here the other day, essayed a more dififi- 
cult task — I was told this afterward by one of 



Tio PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

them. As they stood chatting together, one of 
them noticed two-thirds of a cigarette lying on 
the platform at his feet. 

"Ah!" he said, "she came sooner than he 
expected. He would never have lit it if he 
had known." 

"No," said the second. "He was only a 
beginner and he couldn't stand any more of it." 

"I think you're wrong," said the third. 
"He dropped it by accident, and was too proud 
to pick it up." 

Every one of the three was confident that his 
conjecture was the correct one; and they stood 
there for a minute, urging their respective 
views with some little heat and animation. 
At a short distance from them stood a couple 
of boys, and one of them had been watching 
the group. 

"Bill," he said to his friend, "look at them 
three toffs — hall of 'em fightin' over 'alf a ciga- 
rette. The big 'un found it first, but the others 
were on him afore he could grab it." 

It is impossible to conjecture with certainty, 
even from the most insufficient data. I turn to 



UNDER A CLOCK. 



the different notices on the walls, I am 
hemmed in by prohibitions and warnings. I 
may not travel fraudulently ; I may not have 
my pockets picked ; I am requested not to 
touch the scales, I am allured by advertise- 
ments, and I am still more allured by time- 
tables. I glance once more at that clock; 
calmly and dispassionately it tells me that I 
have now wasted thirty-five minutes of my valu- 
able time. I might, it is true, leave a message 
for my friend in the ingenious automatic ma- 
chine which is here for the purpose; but he is 
of the country, and probably knows not that 
there is such a thing. I possess one more 
penny, and in a desperate desire for something 
to do, I drop it into the first slot I come across. 
I am now the proprietor of one very small and 
very brown cigar. I am just wondering what 
on earth to do with it, when I see my friend 
approaching from the other side of the plat- 
form. He says that he is very sorry, but he 
does not look it, and it is dif^cult to believe 
him. 

Later in the dav he will be caused to smoke 



112 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

that very little cigar. I am glad now that I 
got it. He is a polite man, and he will smoke 
all of it, for I shall give him no chance to dis- 
pose of it surreptitiously. He will be really 
sorry then. 



II.-OUTSIDE A BOARD SCHOOL. 

I HAVE watched this particular Board school 
grow. I walked by it every day when the build- 
ing was mostly scaffolding poles, and the play- 
ground was a wilderness. From constantly see- 
ing it, I came to be interested in it. I won- 
dered why the workmen who were engaged 
upon it showed so little enthusiasm. When 
the glass was at last put in all the windows, I 
think I was more delighted than the glazier. 
When bills appeared on the walls announcing 
that the school would be opened in a few days 
for the reception of children, it was I, and not 
the foreman of the works, who felt most keenly 
the joy of completion. The building has a new 
interest for me now ; for it has lately been see- 
ing a good deal of the most delightful children. 
It is my privilege to see them occasionally as I 
pass, to notice the fine points, and not to be 
blind to that which is less admirable in them. 



114 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



Their chief fault is this — they all show their 
real individuality in the street. It is in this 
that they chiefly differ from you, the well-bred 
member of the upper classes. For in public you 
are careful to be as much as possible like every- 
body else ; it is only among intimate friends 
that you offer an individuality for observation — 
not always your real individuality. They are 
children, and in this respect they know no bet- 
ter; if, when their education stops, they still 
have distinct personalities left, they will prob- 
ably have learned to conceal them, and to con- 
form to a type. Now, in other respects they do 
sometimes try to reproduce some of the quality 
and the convictions of the upper classes, and for 
this we should be thankful. Let me give two 
instances which I witnessed outside my Board 
school. 

Out from the boys' entrance came a thin, 
lanky boy, with dark hair and eyes, and a yellow 
complexion. He had apparently been getting 
himself disliked in the playground. His clothes 
were dusty, and he was breathless. He stood in 
the street, leaning against the wall, and brushed 



OUTSIDE A BOARD SCHOOL. ll5 

himself with one hand in a spiritless fashion. 
He pulled his cap out of his pocket, and was just 
going to put it on his head, when he saw a burly 
boy coming out ; then he replaced the cap in 
his pocket hurriedly, for greater safety, I think. 

" 'Ullo, 'apeny oice !" shouted the big boy as 
he hurried past. It was a reference to the thin 
boy's Italian appearance ; a tendency to sell ices 
at low rates in lower places is the characteristic 
of the Italian in England. The big boy was so 
big that a retort would have been dangerous. 
So the wretched, capless, ill-treated creature 
smiled. It was the smile of policy — the smile 
that is trying, and failing, to cover a hurt. I 
have been told that it is sometimes seen among 
the upper classes. 

The big boy vanished, and out came another 
tormentor — a red-haired boy, small and fat, in a 
tight blue suit. He took up his position on the 
curbstone opposite to the tormented one, and 
commenced by saying emphatically : 

"Furriner !" 

"Sossidge !" was the immediate retort, a ref- 
erence to the fat bov's fatness. 



1 6 PLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 



"Look 'ere," said the small boy with dignity, 
but very little logical connection, "that aint 
your father's 'ouse what you lives in. 'E aint 
only got two rooms in it. I knows yer." 

This was apparently true and not immedi- 
ately answerable. The spiritless "furriner" 
walked slowly away. When he had got a few 
yards off he was so ill-advised as to turn round 
and remark once more, "Sossidge !" so the fat 
boy picked up a stone and threw it at him, and 
hit him. 

On another day I saw a big girl of twelve or 
thirteen, with an infant sister, waiting outside 
the girls' entrance. She seemed a good-tem- 
pered girl, and very fond of her sister, a grave 
little child whom she called Hannie. Down 
the street came another big girl, leading a little 
brother, and this couple also waited outside. 
The two big girls gazed demurely at one an- 
other without saying anything. Then they 
both held up their heads and drew in their lips. 
It was clear that there was some social barrier 
between them. But the infants of whom they 
had charge were too young to understand the 



OUTSIDE A BOARD SCHOOL. 1 17 

beauty of barriers. In a sweet, unreasonable, 
babyish way, the grave Hannie suddenly smiled, 
and stretched out her hand to the little boy ; 
the little boy also smiled, and would have 
spoken if he had not been roughly checked : 
"You aint never to speak to that little gel." 
Her elder sister spanked Hannie for having 
made overtures, and I do not see what else she 
could have done. Still, it was a pity she had to 
do it, because I think she was fond of Hannie. 
Two such instances as these should be cheer- 
ing and comforting. They show that at an 
early age, and comparatively low down in the 
social scale, patriotism and our remarkable taste 
as a nation may display themselves; but they 
do more than this. They show that the dis- 
grace of poverty and the existence of social dis- 
tinctions are recognized. "You don't 'ave yer 
'air cut at a shop !" is a sneer which I have heard 
addressed by one boy to a fellow. To a really 
large mind the poor attempt at economy must 
have seemed mean. Perhaps this is not a very 
close parallel to what goes on in the upper 
classes. The upper classes do not, as the satir- 



Il8 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

ist would have us believe, worship great wealth ; 
they only make certain concessions to very 
great wealth. But the recognition of social dis- 
tinctions brings the Board school child very near 
to the spirit of many delightful people who are 
her superiors. It is true that the method of 
conversational attack and retort which prevails 
among Board school children is not good ; but, 
in these instances, they certainly showed the 
want of good feeling which is at the back of 
most epigrams. They were unkind enough; 
the wit may follow. 

The street games of these children are re- 
markable. At one time the whip-top prevails, 
and for weeks not to own a whip-top is a social 
disabilit)^ Then the whip-top disgraces itself 
in some way, or becomes stale, and its name is 
not so much as mentioned in the streets. Tip- 
cat takes its place. There are periods when no 
one game is in power, and then one sees the 
charm of variety. The girls and the smaller 
boys are mostly imitative. They pretend to be 
anything. That fat, sarcastic boy to whom I 
have alluded has a marvelous faculty for imita- 



OUTSIDE A BOARD SCHOOL. 119 

tion. One day he careered down the street as a 
remorseless steam engine ; on the next day he 
put on his cap inside out and stated that he was 
John the Baptist. The girls seem to like play- 
ing at school best. One girl is the teacher ; the 
rest are divided into two classes, good girls and 
bad girls. The good girls all sit with their 
hands folded and assume an exasperatingly 
meek expression. The teacher tells them that 
they are a comfort to her, and promises them 
impossible rewards. The bad girls refuse to sit 
down, use impertinent language, and run away; 
the teacher captures them, and spanks them 
most realistically. One day I walked behind a 
very little chubby girl of about seven, who was 
carrying a ver\^ large cat. The cat was a dirty 
white, and not happy ; it had an appointment 
elsewhere, and wanted to be off. "No, you 
'on't," its chubby mistress remarked at each 
fresh struggle. When she arrived at the school 
she set the big cat down in the middle of the road. 
"Now, you silly 'ittle fool," she said to it sol- 
emnly, ' 'you may go *ome." The cat trotted off, 
looking pained and surprised, with its tail erect. 



I20 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

Sometimes I pass the school when there are 
no children about outside. The windows are 
open, and I hear a chant of 

"Five nines' for' fi', 
Five tens' fifty." 

Their voices all drop a tone on the last word of 
each line. Or a question has been asked which 
I have not been able to hear; I only catch the 
answering roar of many voices: "Tew-an'-six- 
pence," and for some reason which I do not 
know I find myself inventing arithmetical prob- 
lems to which this answer would be a correct 
solution. It is often easier to find a question 
for an answer than an answer for a question. 



III.— A SUNLESS DAWN. 

Saturday night is a busy night; but nearly 
everyone had done with their work or their 
play, and had gone to bed, as I came up Church 
Street, toward the Embankment, at two o'clock 
on the Sunday morning. Overhead was a sky 
of leaden gray, without a star to be seen ; a few 
spots of rain fell at intervals. The street was 
almost silent; the sharp click of a footstep on 
the pavement seemed an outrage on the still- 
ness, and one tried to walk more quietly. At a 
distant corner two policemen had met, and had 
stopped for a chat ; one could hear their gruff 
voices with grotesque distinctness. A little 
farther on a woman, old and painted, belated 
and hopeless, had sunk down to rest on a door- 
step. The lamplight fell full upon her face. 
She had pushed her bonnet a little back over 
her untidy yellow hair; her head rested on one 
hand. She sat mute and motionless in her rags 



12 2 PLA Y THINGS A ND PA R ODIE S. 

and finery, her bleared eyes wide open, with no 
expression on her coarse features. In most of 
the houses the lights were all out ; but now and 
then one saw the cheerful glare, and marked, 
perhaps, a shadow cross the blind. What kept 
them up so late? Here, possibly, some joyless 
dissipation, and there some entrancing story ! 
or there, behind the small upper window, some- 
one may have been watching by a bedside, long- 
ing for the dawn. In the church tower at the 
street corner the lighted clock showed that it 
was not long to wait now before the hour at 
which the night and morning had agreed to 
meet. 

I came out into Cheyne Walk, the abode of 
genius, and crossed the deserted road, and 
watched the river. It was too dark to see it 
moving immediately below me, and one could 
only hear the swirl of the water against the piles 
of the bridges, or the gentler lapping where it 
licked the stretches of mud and shingle, left bare 
at the low tide ; but a little farther away, in the 
broken bars of crimson or yellow light reflected 
from the lamps on pier, or bridge, or barge, one 



A SUNLESS DAWN. 123 

could see ripple chase ripple in endless haste, 
coming out of the darkness into the bar of light, 
only to vanish in darkness again. In that grim 
brick building on the farther side, the rows of 
windows were all lighted up ; there, at least, rest 
had not yet begun. I heard a step behind me, 
and looked round. It was only a midnight 
loafer, who came slouching slowly toward me 
out of the darkness. He rubbed his eyes with 
one hand, as if he had been asleep. His face 
was lean, dirty, and unshaven, with an ugly scar 
on one cheek. He held a short clay pipe, bowl 
downward, in his mouth ; but it was empty, and 
the man looked like one bereft of all comfort. 
He stopped for a second or two, to survey me 
carefully ; and he was displeased with me. He 
grunted disapproval, and slouched away into the 
darkness again, while I turned eastward, along 
Chelsea Reach. On the opposite shore the 
trees in Battersea Park seemed a long, low line 
of darkness, merging indistinctly into the paler 
darkness beyond. Chelsea Bridge in the dis- 
tance looked amaze of lights and shadows flung 
across the river. A late hansom flashed past me 



124 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

on the road ; and as the rattle of wheels died 
away, I heard suddenly a sound like a woman 
sobbing. It was, of course, only a cat — a stray, 
wicked, London cat. Cats in the daytime are 
nothing but cats, but at night a strain of morbid 
humanity seems to come out in them, and at 
times they catch the exact tones of the human 
voice. 

The road now was quite deserted ; but do 
no ghosts walk here? For suddenly I thought 
how, not very many years ago, one who well 
knew the small hours might often have walked 
up and down this pavement at some such time 
— one whose eye would have missed no beauti- 
ful detail in the scene, whose wearied mind 
would have drunk "like some sharp strengthen- 
ing wine . . . the stillness and the broken 
lights." Others, too, there might be, and one 
who — so the fancy takes me — would ever walk 
alone, a fierce, ardent, rugged philosopher, still 
but partly understood by the best of us. 

Already it was growing lighter. The trees in 
Battersea Park were more distinct, and now I 
could dimly see the line of shore beneath them 



A SUNLESS DAWN. 125 

and the black barges waiting there. With a 
quick, business-like step, a young man hurried 
past me, with a long pole in his hands, putting 
out the Embankment lights. The gray of the 
sky grew paler and pinker, and those dark 
smudges on it would soon be seen to be clouds, 
blown quickly along by the cold morning wind. 
As I passed on to the Chelsea Bridge, I noticed 
the strange groups of people on the seats be- 
tween the trees. Most of them looked as if 
they were used to it, and were snoring peace- 
fully; but one or two were amateurs, appar- 
ently, and had not caught the trick of it yet. 
These were not asleep, although they looked 
tired enough as they sat there gazing blankly 
toward the river. 

I stood on Chelsea Bridge. At the farther 
end a little group had gathered round a brightly 
lighted coffee-stall ; men were talking together 
in subdued voices. Far away in the east it came 
creeping up the sky, the gray dawn. There was 
to be no gorgeous display of brightness and 
color; all was cold and cheerless. In the Park 
a thrush had woke up, and sang alone. Then 



126 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

the other birds joined it, thrush and linnet to- 
gether, singing joyously. It was cold and cheer- 
less enough, but it was morning — the morning 
of a day for rest ; and this was their hymn of 
praise. As I stood there, listening to the birds, 
some women reeled out from one of the side 
streets on to the Embankment. They were 
shrieking abuse at one another, swearing at the 
top of their ugly voices. On the one side of the 
river the birds had woke up on Sunday morn- 
ing; on the other side were these terrible 
women staggering away from their Saturday 
night. I hope the birds could not hear them. 
I waited till the last bad word had died away 
in the distance, and then I turned homeward. 
It was quite light now. One could see the blue 
lobelias in the Embankment garden ; and the 
few lamps which were still alight on the river 
looked pale and faint. Some men hurried past 
to their work on the line. The policemen 
looked sleepy, and were not nearly so interested 
in me as they had appeared to be an hour or 
two before ; but a small black cat followed me 
down the street for some way, keeping twenty 



A SUNLESS daivn: 127 

or thirty yards behind me. He thought, pos- 
sibly, that I was going round with the milk, and 
that there might be chances for a cat of some 
spirit and enterprise. He was a young, san- 
guine, ignorant cat, and when he discovered at 
last that I had no milk cans with me he got 
very unhappy. He went off and sat in the mid- 
dle of the road by himself, and pitied himself, 
and mewed wearily. When I saw him last he 
was still sitting there, and still complaining, as I 
fancied, of the generally unsatisfactory nature 
of everything. 



IV. -NO THOROUGHFARE. 

It cheered me to read that the Fulham Road 
was closed. It was only that morning that my 
omnibus had gone exceedingly deviously be- 
cause Fleet Street was up. I liked to think that 
others had to suffer inconvenience — I mean, that 
I could sympathize with them over an annoy- 
ance which I myself had felt. As I went far- 
ther on, I reflected that I was going where 
neither cab nor omnibus could follow me, and I 
began to realize what the feelings of the privi- 
leged classes must be ; nor was I only pleased 
at the extension of my sympathies — all around 
me were workmen doing the most interesting 
things; the road was putting off the old mac- 
adam and putting on the new wood pavement ; 
and one could see all this without paying any- 
thing. The cheapness of the spectacle allured 
me, and I have since enjoyed it frequently. I 
have even fancied at times that I have found 



NO THOROUGHFARE. 129 

here a salutary change of air; the smell of tar 
has much the same simplicity and directness 
that may be found in the smell of a village duck 
pond ; the most rural road could not be more 
impassable than this ; in the most retired ham- 
let it could not be more difificult to hire a cab. 
I liked best to watch the men at work. One 
sees the road in every stage of completion. In 
one section you hear the rhythmical beat of the 
hammers on the iron spikes that loosen the old 
road, the click of picks, and the scrape of shov- 
els. It is work which calls forth great energy 
from the workers, and which it is inspiriting to 
watch. To see other people working hard is 
always exhilarating. In another section the old 
material has all been cleared away, and there is 
a bed of cement, wet, smooth, and shining, wait- 
ing to receive the wooden blocks. These blocks 
are piled up in a low wall running along the edge 
of the pavement. In a third section the blocks 
are being put down ; occasionally a workman 
chops a piece off a block to make it fit better. 
This practice does not seem quite fair, until 
one remembers that this is not a puzzle or an 



130 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

exercise for ingenuity. In another place a sort 
of thick black soup is being ladled out of cal- 
drons, and swept over the surface of the blocks 
which have been already laid down. I have not 
used the technical terms in describing this 
road-making, because I thought that the aver- 
age reader might not understand them ; also, 
because I do not happen to know them myself. 
There are plenty of spectators there, and they 
are mostly critical. I noticed two boys of ten 
or eleven, who seemed to know all about it. 
The leading spirit of the two was smoking a 
cigarette, and seemed to feel his own impor- 
tance ; but the world had apparently few other 
delusions for him. He might condescend to 
watch the making of a new road, but he was not 
optimistic or enthusiastic about it. In fact, 
he looked almost sorrowfully at the gangs of 
workmen. 

"They 'ont get it done in theer corntrac' 
toime. They cawnt do it. Bill." 

"Cawnt they?" said Bill. The knowledge of 
affairs shown by the other's remark, and also by 
his cigarette, seemed to make a spirit of emula- 



NO THOROUGHFARE. 131 



tion in Bill. He also felt called upon to prove 
himself a man of the world. "Got a speer bit 
o' baccy?" he added with artistic carelessness. 

"I might 'ev a bit, or I mightn't; I cawnt 
say till I see." The beauty of the answer was 
in its implications. He fished out of one 
pocket an old matchbox, and opened it. "I've 
got more'n I thought — 'elp yerself." 

He held out the box to Bill. Now I feel 
confident that up to this moment Bill had in- 
tended to keep the thing up properly — to 
smoke a cigarette, and pity people, and show a 
knowledge of affairs. But when he saw that 
precious matchbox extended innocently toward 
him, a sudden impulse of sheer boyishness 
overcame him. He smote the matchbox from 
underneath, sent it flying into the air, and 
burst into a roar of undignified laughter. 

"Just wait one minute, will yer!" said the 
aged smoker, as he gathered up his treasure 
from the road. "I'll give yer what-for for that, 
my boy." Bill did wait ; I believe the other boy 
was subsequently sorry that he had detained 
Bill. 



132 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 



I have also seen the workmen in their hour 
of repose. They can apparently sleep under 
considerable difficulties. A sack on a loose heap 
of rubble forms the couch. The man lies flat on 
his back with his hands under his head. His 
hat is tilted a little forward to keep the sun out 
of his eyes. His clay pipe droops in one corner 
of his mouth ; even in sleep his teeth do not 
loose their hold of it. Other men make them- 
selves something which is almost an easy-chair 
by tilting a wheelbarrow. After a morning at 
road-making, I should think it would be possi- 
ble to sleep almost anywhere. 

At night the scene is weird, solitary, and 
romantic. The light from the lanterns or fur- 
naces is dim and wavering, the kind of light 
which at a little distance makes inanimate 
objects seem to be living and moving. One 
feels how easy it would be to murder the police- 
man who has just passed, — there are plenty of 
pickaxes near at hand, — and to destroy all traces 
of the crime by the help of one of those fur- 
naces. Perhaps the same idea has occurred to 
the policeman ; he looks very suspiciously at 



NO THOROUGHFARE. 133 



me. I could not in any case have made use of 
the furnace, because I see now that there is a 
watchman seated in front of it. His head rests 
on his hands, and he appears to be asleep. He 
turns round sharply when he hears my foot- 
step, and he too looks at me suspiciously. By 
the time I have reached Walham Green I know 
precisely how a condemned murderer feels. 
This in itself is a kind of change — not perhaps 
quite as good as a fortnight at the seaside, but 
some relief in a career of monotonous innocence. 



v.— IN LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. 

The ordinary man's strongest point is his 
ignorance. And the subject of which he shows 
the most thorough and unHmited ignorance is 
generally the law of his own land. Conse- 
quently, if he is called upon to walk through any 
place where many solicitors congregate, he has 
a sense of awe. He has an uncomfortable feeling 
that he is a bad man, and that it is of no use to 
try to hide it ; that he is an ignorant man, and 
that every solicitor who meets him knows him 
to be ignorant, and blandly despises him for it. 
He does not know what a tort is, or what com- 
mon form means, or how to find his way about 
Somerset House. In Lincoln's Inn Fields the 
air is redolent with the very best law, and the 
ordinary man as he walks through the place 
feels like a poacher. Many clerks are coming 
and going. Some are chained to a black bag; 
others have done nothing worthy of fetters, 
and go freely; nearly all are in a hurry. They 



IN LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. 135 

run up steps and down steps, and take short 
cuts, and know their way about. Cabs are 
ahvays waiting in case of emergencies. Judges 
pass through on their way to the Courts in their 
own private equipages. I saw one the other 
day in a common hansom ; I will not mention 
his name, but I hope he is ashamed of himself. 
Clients enter eagerly and smilingly the ofifices 
of their respective solicitors, and some time 
afterward pass into the street again, looking 
limp and dejected. I do not know what the 
solicitors do to them ; but it is something, 
apparently, which destroys all enthusiasm, 
knocks down one's castles in the air, and leaves 
one face to face with a few facts, which are gen- 
erally unpleasant. Or, perhaps, it is the com- 
bination of mystery and severity which seems 
to prevail in a solicitor's ofifice. They give you 
a morning paper to read, but you have no heart 
for it. You gaze at a few black boxes — very 
black, and cold, and shiny — that have strayed 
into the waiting-room, and read curious inscrip- 
tions upon them. "The Pimpleton Colliery 
Co." You wonder where Pimpleton is, and 



136 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

what kind of a company it was. No opinion is 
expressed about it on the outside of the box ; 
the inscription is impartial and reticent. 
"Smithers' Trustees" are the words on the next 
box. Who was poor Smithers, and did he ever 
think he would come to this? It is a large box. 
Can the Trustees be inside? "Sir Thomas and 
Lady Polecat's Marriage Settlement." Sir 
Thomas was generous — generous to the verge 
of weakness — and she — well, it was not a happy 
marriage. You have absolutely no grounds for 
thinking anything of the kind, except that the 
names and the nature of the box seem to sug- 
gest it somehow. In the next room you can 
hear a clerk reading out something in a dreary 
monotone ; another clerk with a peremptory 
voice stops him at intervals. You wonder what 
they are doing. Is it possible that they can be 
playing some kind of a round game? At last, 
you go to the window and look out for want of 
any other occupation. That solicitor must be 
most conscientious from whose windows the 
best view of St. Paul's is to be obtained. The 
longer a man waits, the greater does his respect 



IN LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. 137 

become for the man who keeps him waiting. 
Many more such opinions might you formulate, 
but a clerk enters, a clerk who conceals as far as 
he can the contempt which he naturally has for 
you: "Would you step this way?" In another 
minute you are taking a lesson in the manage- 
ment of your affairs, or, as you prefer to term 
it, you are giving your solicitor your instruc- 
tions. 

But Lincoln's Inn Fields are not only legal; 
there is a space in their midst which is almost 
rural, a square garden where, as Dickens wrote, 
"a few smoky sparrows twitter in smoky trees, 
as though they called to one another, 'Let us 
play at country.' " Many memories of Dickens 
linger here. Speaking of himself, he wrote from 
Broadstairs, "Sometimes he goes up to London 
(eighty miles or so away), and then I'm told 
there is a sound in Lincoln's Inn Fields at night 
as of men laughing, together with a clinking of 
knives and forks and wine-glasses." The jovial- 
ity seems to have gone from the place now, and 
some of the splendor has gone too. My Lord 
Sandwich — but this was a very long time ago — 



138 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

had a house here, and hither came Mr. Samuel 
Pepys to say farewell one fine February morn- 
ing, when my lord was about to go "out of 
towne upon his embassy toward Spayne." The 
Court was in mourning for the King of Spain, 
and a little less than a fortnight before, Mr. 
Pepys has duly recorded that he "put on a new 
black cloth suit to an old coat." He would 
not, we trust, wear that old coat upon this im- 
portant occasion; for my lord's house was full 
of people. Among them was Sir W. Coventry. 
"Only a piece of courtship," says knowing Mr. 
Pepys, who was no bad hand at a little "court- 
ship" himself. 

The square garden looks barren enough now, 
but it is quite indisputable. There are real 
birds, real trees and grass, although they may 
be a little smoky. And here in the summer- 
time one may see tennis-players amusing them- 
selves, and never thinking that within some few 
yards of them awful secrets, bound with a blood- 
red girdle of tape, may be lying in the dark 
seclusion of a strong-room. If one knew all 
that these solicitors know, it is to be feared 



IX LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. 139 

that one would have no heart for tennis. At 
certain hours of the day streams of children flow 
througli Lincohi's Inn Fields coming from their 
school to their unsavory homes in Clare Market. 
They walk under the shadow of the law, so to 
speak, but they are not touched by its gravity. 
They are reckless little children, with a tendency 
to sample everything. They drink at the foun- 
tains, poke their noses through the bars of that 
almost rural place, and speak contumeliously of 
those who are inside, hang on to passing vehi- 
cles, sit down in street puddles, make absurd 
fusses over grimy babies, use awful language, 
whistle piercingly, fight freely — do anything 
which is not serene and grave. 

About the hour of six comes the general exo- 
dus; the lights go out in the windows; cloths 
are flung over tables piled with papers, to keep 
the dust from them ; clerks hurry to secure a 
place on the 'bus for Camden Town ; solicitors 
fly homeward in hansoms. By nine o'clock, I 
am told, there is hardly a vestige of the best 
professional manner left in London. Dinner 
destroys it. 



VI.— ON THE UNDERGROUND. 

It has always seemed to me to be more 
romantic to go by the Underground Railway 
than to take the 'bus. Consequently, I gener- 
ally take the 'bus. But there are times when I 
come fresh from the perusal of some modern 
novel, in which the hero has black hair and 
knows a good deal about hypnotism ; on these 
occasions I do feel that the Underground is 
much less incongruous. It is true that the 
routine of the booking-office tends to lower the 
whole proceeding to the level of a commonplace 
commercial transaction ; but one cannot see a 
train emerging slowly from the darkness and 
vanishing into darkness again, without recalling 
to one's mind William Wordsworth's "Intima- 
tions of Immortality" ; and, to me personally, 
the mere fact that I do not know for certain 
whether or not I change at Gloucester Road 
makes the journey seem mysterious and even 
hazardous. 



av THE UNDERGROUND. 141 



There are many respects in which a station 
on the Underground resembles all other sta- 
tions. The guard shows the same supernatural 
grace and agility in entering his van while the 
train is in motion. The boy from Smith's book- 
stall displays the same enthusiasm in his efforts 
to sell the latest edition. There are advertise- 
ments and there are time-tables. The auto- 
matic machine here, as elsewhere, pleads with 
the young man with silent eloquence, tempting 
him to drop in one penny and take one packet 
of butter-scotch, and leaving him afterward to 
wonder what on earth he shall do with it. But 
there is very little luggage. I have stood at 
Euston, and watched the piles of luggage dis- 
gorged on to the platform, and attempted some- 
times to conjecture the man from his portman- 
teau. I have been uniformly unsuccessful, but 
the pastime pleases me. Here one has to con- 
jecture the portmanteau from the man. In the 
case of that gentleman who twists a little black 
mustache, makes his own cigarettes, and wishes 
to know if he is right for "San Jemms' 
Par-r-k," I should expect to find a battered 



14- PLAYTHINGS AND PAKODIES. 

Gladstone bag still bearing the labels of foreign 
hotels. Of course, I can never know that my 
conjecture is right, but that is better than always 
knowing that my conjecture is wrong, which is 
my fate at stations not on the Underground. 

I am always interested in the advertisements. 
"Early to bed and early to rise is useless unless 
you advertise," says the American proverb ; but 
it is quite impossible to think that these ad- 
vertisements are posted on each side of the 
line from any selfish motive. They cannot 
be merely utilitarian, because one passes too 
quickly to read the whole of them. "Hang 
your Venetians!" is a line which I have read 
frequently while traveling in the Underground, 
and yet it was only the other day that I discov- 
ered its full import. At first sight it looks like 
the cry of some bloodthirsty Italian patriot, 
but on reading the rest of the advertisements I 
found that it" only referred to a particular way 
of fixing blinds, which the advertiser desired to 
recommend. In all probability these advertise- 
ments are put here from aesthetic motives, to 
break the long line of blank wall and to please 



O/V THE UNDERGROUND. i43 

the eye. The English sky is not what it should 
be, and our advertisers probably wished to im- 
prove and diversify it when they erected sky- 
signs. But I do protest against the beautiful 
girl-child of fourteen, with flaxen hair, tight 
boots, and a short pink frock, holding up a 
packet to an amazed and ecstatic mother. The 
packet may be cocoa, or soap, or pills, or baking 
powder; but the girl's remark to her mother 
always begins with, "See, mamma!" and this 
is maddening. 

The compartments which do not quite reach 
to the top of the carriage are a nuisance, because 
they often make the man in one compartment 
the unwilling audience of confidences which are 
being interchanged in another. The other day 
the average young man and average young 
woman got into the compartment next to mine 
at South Kensington. 

"Emma!" he said. 

I coughed, but he would not notice it. 

"Emma, Hemma," he went on, "spike to 
me." 

Then I coughed in a way which might have 



144 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

unlinked carriages and disordered the signals at 
Sloane Square. It had its effect. Before we 
left South Kensington he was discussing Mr. 
Irving's Louis AY., and saying some very bitter 
things about the dramatic critics. It is only 
safe to discuss impersonal subjects on the Un- 
derground. Most passengers know this ; and, if 
they wish to speak of intimate and secret sub- 
jects, they do so with a certain care and reser- 
vation. Here is a conversation : 

"That matter I was speaking to you about on 
Tuesday night — anything settled?" 

"Well, I saw 'im, yer know." 

"What, the old man?" 

"No, the son. He awksed me to 'ave a glass 
of wine — sherry wine — but I wasn't to be got 
over that way." 

"What did yer say?" 

"Say? I said no-thankyer. I told 'im I 
didn't drink so early in the mornin*. Then I 
tackled 'im about the — you know — an 'e 'adn't 
a word to say," 

"An' what did 'e do?" 

"Caved in, reglar caved in. He just give me 



ON THE UNDERGROUXD. MS 



the — the what I wanted, yer know. I wasn't 
sarcastic exactly, but I let 'im see that I knew 
what 'e was, and that settled 'im." 

It is very low and very despicable, but I felt 
distinctly curious to know what all this was 
about. 

One idea always haunts me on the Under- 
ground. I always remember that up above me 
the traffic is passing. Men are working, or lov- 
ing, or sleeping, and under their feet I am pass- 
ing on some commonplace errand. They do 
not know it ; I am near them, but they do not re- 
gard me. I feel like some natural law which 
works in secrecy and darkness, taking effect at 
last in the sudden earthquake or eruption. A 
feeling as grand as this is very cheap at the price 
charged for a return ticket from Earl's Court to 
the Temple. I am not quite as disastrous as a 
natural law, but I am for a time as secret and as 
dark. It is in the solitude on the outskirts of 
the crowd that one realizes best what the crowd 
really means. When I am in the midst of the 
bustle of the Strand I forget the people around 
me. When in the solitude of a carriage on the 



146 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

Underground Railway, I am near them and yet 
apart from them, I think most of their vast sig- 
nificance ; of the merchant in milHons returning 
from too good a lunch ; of the street vender of 
some toy anxious over every penny ; of the 
hurry of special editions and the leisure of the 
classes who purchase them. Here within but a 
few yards of me is every class of society, close 
together locally, immeasurably apart really. 

"Temple !" Once more I am in the crowd, 
and intent on nothing but my own private and 
particular business. 



VII.— IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. 

On a September afternoon, when the autumn 
is trying to make up for the summer, it is pleas- 
ant to enjoy a penny solitude on a chair in Ken- 
sington Gardens. It is pleasant, because in the 
remoter parts of these gardens London is very 
far off, and drowsy noises invite one to slumber. 
One hears the quack of the ducks on the pond 
in the distance, the barking of dogs well pleased 
with the open space, the laughter of children- 
children of beautiful attire from respectable 
Bayswater or cultured Kensington — the rustle 
of dead leaves as someone passes across the 
grass, and the hum of the traffic far away in the 
Uxbridge Road. As one listens to these faint 
sounds, things slowly become indistinct and un- 
certain. The hum of the traffic is changed into 
the hum of a mowing-machine in a garden which 
you knew well once, a hundred miles away from 
London. You remember that the sound of that 



148 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

mowing-machine always used to send you to 
sleep. Why, you ask, does it not send one to 
sleep now? Possibly, because these dogs make 
such a noise with their quacking — there is some- 
thing wrong with that reason, but you do not 
feel strenuous enough to put it right. Oblivion 
comes slowly over you ; your last conscious 
thoughts are that it is unseemly to sleep in a 
public place, and that you w^ill keep awake, and 
then that you simply must go to sleep for two 
minutes and trust that the curate and the rest 
of the congregation will not observe it. The 
curate and congregation have been brought into 
your mind by some association of ideas which I 
am unable to trace. So you sleep calmly, until 
someone touches you on the shoulder; in an 
instant you are sitting upright and assuming an 
expression of reverent attention. It is only the 
man who has charge of the chairs, and who 
apologizes for disturbing you. The conscious- 
ness of things-as-they-really-are comes over you 
in quick surges, and for one penny you purchase 
the right to sit on any chair in Kensington 
Gardens, Hyde Park, the Green Park, and St, 



IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. 1 49 

James's Park during the remainder of the 
day. 

The desire to walk always follows immedi- 
ately upon the purchase of the right to sit 
down, just as the knowledge that one can now 
sleep undisturbed always induces wakefulness. 
You walk down the avenue ; a nursemaid is run- 
ning with a perambulator, to the delight of the 
baby inside. At the speed which she has at- 
tained the perambulator is only partially under 
control, and occasionally zigzags. As you 
pass, it zigzags into you and hurts you. The 
nursemaid gives you one look, and you feel at 
once that in some way, which you cannot under- 
stand now, she has conferred a favor upon you, 
and that you have not behaved at all well about 
it. You murmur an apology, and she moves 
away at a reduced speed, talking audibly to the 
baby: "Did the nasty, great, ugly man try to 
upset byeby's pretty p'rambulator, then?" 
There are many nursemaids in Kensington Gar- 
dens, and a proper perambulator track ought to 
be laid down. Under the trees on one side of 
the avenue two schoolgirls are sitting and read- 



15° PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



ing, or, to be more accurate, one of them is 
reading out loud, and the other is embroidering 
a sock, or some work of that kind, and h'stening. 
The reader pauses as you pass; not from nat- 
ural modesty and reserve, but in order to make 
you feel more like a blight. A little farther on 
a woman of severe aspect sits with a book in her 
hands. Occasionally she closes her eyes and her 
lips move. She is committing something to 
memory. The book is a reciter; so there is a 
bad time coming for some respectable drawing 
room. A very old lady is wheeled past in her 
chair; as she passes you, she raises a deliberate 
double eyeglass, discovers all your little deficien- 
cies, and finds them quite uninteresting. Why 
go farther? Why should you go on to the pond 
— you, who have no bread to give the ducks, 
and do not understand the scientific sailing of 
boats? Have you not still in your ticket-pocket 
that by virtue of which you may sit on any chair 
in Kensington Gardens and three Parks? Go 
back to your penny solitude! 

Once more you sit beneath the shadow of 
some great tree, and hear "the girdling city's 



IN KENSINGTON GARDENS. 151 



hum." Look upward, and on every bough each 
leaf is edged with brown, and yellow blotches 
stain the green, veined centers. It is warm 
enough now; but in a little while the trees will 
be bared, and you will scarcely care to sit still 
for long in the open. It is almost quiet here ; 
here no loud orator exhorts his crowd to hate 
the capitalist or lead a better life; the noise of 
the traffic is rather a lullaby than a distraction ; 
but one has not far to walk before one reaches 
the uproar. The warm, drowsy, autumn after- 
noon in these Gardens has all the charm of a 
snatched opportunity; the quiet is more deeply 
felt because the noisy restlessness is so near. 
In the desert one is proverbially thankful for the 
oasis; in the oasis one should be thankful for 
the desert. In Kensington Gardens — perhaps 
"in this lone, open glade" — one of our modern 
poets wrote not the least charming of his lyrics, 
as he watched : 

All things in this glade go through 
The changes of their quiet day. 

You wander away toward the gate, trying to 
recall the rest of the poem. Fate is fond of 



152 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

spoiling our most cultured and appreciative mo- 
ments. The London boy, who has passed out 
of the gate before you, turns back excitedly and 
shouts to his brother, who is some twenty yards 
behind him : 

"Awthur! Loossharp ! Run! 'Ere's a cab- 
bos down." 



VIII.— ON WATERLOO BRIDGE. 

The rain had been falling at intervals 
throughout the day, and had brought with it, 
so it seemed, almost universal depression. The 
passing omnibus sent its shower of mud into the 
face of the wayfarer, and yet took no pride ap- 
parently in doing it. The cab horses were all 
grown weary and mechanical ; they came down 
Chancery Lane in two slides and a convulsion, 
but cared nothing for it. On the pavement 
there were sullen and bitter feelings in the 
hearts of the crowd, because those that had um- 
brellas were many and those that could manage 
them aright were very few. Did anyone feel 
happier for the gentle spring showers? I can- 
not say certainly, but I saw a hatter come to the 
door of his shop and look out ; he went back 
again, rubbing his large hands softly together, 
and looking thankful. 

To-night one naturally turned to the river. 

»53 



154 FLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 



"Are you wet?" it seemed to be saying; "I, 
too, am very wet and darkly miserable, finding 
my own length tedious, and tired of my tides." 
It has its moods. On winter nights it is very 
angry ; the white gleam of the floating ice is 
like the white of fierce teeth ; it snarls and 
growls against the arches; it shakes itself impa- 
tiently under the Embankment lights; it wants 
to get away and do mischief in the darkness. 
Then there are happy mornings when the old 
blind man on the bridge, as he sits reading and 
mumbling, is conscious of a little sunlight ; and 
then the river is brilliant and active, like a City 
man wearing a shining hat and hurrying to catch 
a train. And to-night it is mysterious and sad. 
It has a great many secrets, and it slides along 
in the darkness muttering to itself about them. 
It is full of horrible knowledge, which it does 
not always keep to itself. Sometimes, out of 
sheer wantonness, it gives up one of its ghastly 
secrets, to sicken us and frighten us. But to- 
night it only mutters to itself. It is like the old 
woman who passed me just now. She was an 
old hag with a tattered shawl, sandy-gray hair. 



ON WATERLOO BRIDGE lS5 

and a wicked face. She skulked along in the 
darkness, swearing under her breath all the 
while. 

The crowd at night is, or seems to be, more 
picturesque. There are times in the day when 
it would be hardly possible to throw a stone on 
Waterloo Bridge without hitting a small black 
bag, unless an omnibus got in the way. But 
now the clerk who comes into business every 
week day by Waterloo has finished with work 
for the day, and has gone back to comfort and 
Clapham. Heavily laden vans covered with 
dripping tarpaulins are still moving slowly 
toward the station. Strange characters loiter 
on the bridge at night sometimes. Some do not 
seem perfectly easy under the critical gaze of 
the policeman. There is one type which seems 
very common, a middle-aged man with a black 
chin, a white face, and a suspecting eye. He 
wears a greenish-black frock coat very much too 
large for him, with the collar turned up to hide 
deficiencies, and a low felt hat tilted a little for- 
ward and a little to one side. Sometimes he 
wears boots and sometimes slippers, but he 



156 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

always has them very much too large, so that 
he shuffles in his walk. To-night I notice that 
ironical fate has left him with carpet slippers. 
He is to be found anywhere between White- 
chapel and West Kensington, but he is particu- 
larly fond of bridges. Sometimes his impulsive 
nature leads him to confide in you. He is go- 
ing to call on the French ambassador; he has 
in fact, an appointment with him, and he has no 
doubt that the French ambassador will do jus- 
tice to his case. He will not trouble you with 
the details of his case. He rather gives you the 
impression that the French ambassador would 
not like him to be so indiscreet. No, his point 
is this : his interview is not until the morning, 
and in the meantime what is he to do? He 
has no money, and he cannot beg. He would 
sooner starve than beg. He would be thankful 
for a loan of sixpence, not more — he would not 
take more, because he might not be able to re- 
pay it. He asks you for it rather than anyone 
else, because he could see at once that you were 
a gentleman. He adds, rather incoherently, 
that it may be the turning-point in his career. 



ON WATERLOO BRIDGE. 157 

It is generally at night that he tells this story — 
or any other story. 

Suddenly a lump of mud, large and of irregu- 
lar shape, darts out from the traffic in the road- 
way and walks once around me, sniffing. There 
is a dog inside it, a dog that has temporarily 
mislaid its master. He turns from me in bitter 
disappointment, and in his flurry and excite- 
ment begins to investigate the most unlikely 
people. He is perfectly sure that he had a mas- 
ter somewhere about here, but for the life of 
him he can't remember where he put the man. 
At last a shrill whistle sounds fifty yards away, 
and the lump of mud hurries off with a little 
impatient bark, \uliich means : "Why on earth 
couldn't the man have said that before instead 
of giving me all this anxiety!" 

It is rather interesting to watch the crowd 
and to conjecture which member of it would be 
the most likely to commit suicide by jumping 
from the bridge. The river does not look par- 
ticularly inviting; and even if it were cleaner 
and warmer, I believe that there must always 
be one moment during the fall from the bridge 



158 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

to the water when the action seems to be a mis- 
take — a mistake beyond the possibihty of cor- 
rection. Would it be the duty of anyone on 
the bridge to jump in after the unfortunate? 
As one looks down at the water, one sees so very 
many reasons why such an attempt at a rescue 
would be foolhardy and useless. Personally, I 
should not like to deprive some worthier man 
of the chance of displaying heroism. 

As I look, the lights of a train pass slowly 
across Charing Cross bridge, and one sees the 
steam from the engine. Steam and smoke often 
seem to be living creatures. Yonder, from one 
hard-working chimney, the smoke comes out in 
the form of an angry snake, seeming to be fight- 
ing its way through the wind and rain. Then, 
by some change in the strength or direction of 
the wind, it alters its shape, and looks like a 
woman's hair. Then, again, it scatters into 
pieces, and seems to be a fhght of little ghostly 
gray birds hurrying away into the darkness. 



IX.— TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD. 

There are many streets in London which 
have neither the poetry of picturesque poverty 
nor the graces of luxury and culture. Pre- 
eminent among these is Tottenham Court Road. 
Some of its shops are large ; very few of them 
are beautiful. They may be ambitious, but 
they do not reach to the level of the artistic 
upholsterer. There is, for instance, a kind of 
flowerpot, of one color — a dirty, ugly color; 
one sees it often on the window-sills of lodging 
houses in the black back streets of Bloomsbury, 
and one always feels sure that it must have been 
bought in Tottenham Court Road ; it marks the 
point of taste at which the middle class has 
arrived. The artistic spirit and the iniquitous 
hire-system seldom exist together, and Totten- 
ham Court Road is the home of the hire-system. 
There is a certain kind of cake which is chiefly 
to be found in the confectioners' windows of 
159 



l6o PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

this road. It is a cake of considerable parts, 
but it is not nearly so good as it wants to be. 
Sometimes it adorns a social undertaking of a 
family. But there is something in it — some 
subtle quality perfectly independent of currants 
— which irresistibly suggests a large hall, tea 
urns, pomatum, platform speeches, and a magic 
lantern rather out of order. The cake, like the 
flowerpot, is ambitious. Many of the shops 
here have not even ambitions. The felt hats in 
that shop over the way are "all one price." 
There is no room there for the indulgence of 
class distinctions; like the processes of nature, 
they vary neither for peer nor peasant. 

And, indeed, the crowds passing up and 
down the road hardly seem to be given to 
ostentation and small vanities. There are ex- 
ceptions, of course; I notice a thin, pale clerk 
looking intently into a tailor's window and smil- 
ing gratefully at the more forcible patterns. 
But, as a rule, the people seem to have some 
money, but not much money to spend, and do 
not look as if they would spend it without suf^- 
cient reason. Consequently, the allurements 



TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD. i6i 

and seductions which are offered are very 
strong. The cheapest goods are put in the 
windows with the price marked upon them ; and 
they are very cheap. How does the grocer, 
whose establishment I just passed, manage to 
sell tinned sardines at such an absurdly small 
price ? One cannot but marvel at it, though per- 
sonally one might prefer a more quiet death. 
The notices in the windows are peculiarly at- 
tractive. One man advertises "The Boots of the 
Future." This might, perhaps, be called the 
leather forecast. It appeals to the same in- 
stinct as the weary old man in the Strand, who 
tells us that three most ordinary collar studs, to 
be purchased for one penny, are "the greatest 
novelty upon hurth." The shops, I notice, of 
fishmongers and fruiterers spread themselves 
out and protrude into the pavement. Can it 
be safe to allow so much fruit to be within the 
reach of the passer-by? I feel certain that I 
could take one of those apples without being 
seen by anyone in the shop. But at this mo- 
ment a wiry-looking little man, with conscien- 
tiousness written upon his countenance, fixes his 



1 62 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

cold glance upon me. He is there to watch ; 
and, unfortunately, he read in my eye that I 
was calculating the possibility of stealing an 
apple; he has added the conjecture that I was 
intending to steal one, which is horribly wrong 
of him. He watches me suspiciously as I move 
away. I feel half inclined to go back again and 
buy something expensive — a cocoanut, for in- 
stance — but this might look like the action of a 
guilty man. Besides, I do not happen to have 
any money with me. In some of the by-streets 
irregular commerce is being conducted from 
barrows ; they are lit by candles protected from 
the wind by glass chimneys. They ofTer for 
sale, apparently, an unspeakable shell fish and 
the effervescing drinks of the summer time. 
Who buys them? And what on earth can you 
do with them when you have bought them? 
As one goes farther north, the shops and houses 
seem to get smaller and more sordid. I sup- 
pose one always reaches the point at last, in 
walking out of London, where the wretchedness 
of the outskirt merges into the snug decency 
of the suburb. 



TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD. 163 



The stream of clerks and business men that 
flows down Tottenham Court Road in the morn- 
ing and back again in the evening is quite dis- 
tinct from the aimless, drifting crowd that lives 
in the vicinity and seems to be chiefly occupied 
in looking in shop windows. A girl of seven 
years or so has just stopped before that uphol- 
sterer's and stares eagerly, ardently, at the 
saddle-bag suite. Then she sighs a little, and 
moves on to a chemist's, where she again 
pauses. She looks longingly, almost hungrily, 
at a bottle of quinine and iron tonic. Suddenly 
she tears herself away and begins to run ; she 
runs a few steps and stops short, sucking one 
finger; then she walks sedately back again to 
the upholsterer's and stares once more at the 
saddle-bag suite. Now, I should like to know 
what mental process underlay this series of 
actions. 

The sunlight reveals no fresh beauties in Tot- 
tenham Court Road, and the gaslight cannot 
glorify it. It remains sordid — sordid in its vir- 
tues, sordid in its vices. Its temples of dissi- 
pation, with their grimy shrubs and ugly glare, 



l64 FLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

hardly invite one to enter. It has not the bril- 
liant activity of the City, nor the wealth and 
repose of the West. Almost every face in the 
crowd looks tired ; and most of them seem to 
be in the habit of getting tired to very little 
purpose. They can live by their work, but 
there is always a struggle. There are few less 
inspiriting places in London than Tottenham 
Court Road ; its greatest emporium does not 
redeem it. 



X.— SATURDAY NIGHT IN THE 
EDGWARE ROAD. 

Between the line of barrows on one side of 
the pavement and the shops on the other side 
the crowd is so dense that one must walk slowly. 
For to-morrow will be Sunday and many have 
come marketing to-night ; Saturday, too, is pay 
day, and there is money to spend. The air is 
filled with the hoarse cries of the most energetic 
salesmen in the world. The flaring lamps on 
the stalls and the superior gas of the shops 
make here a little brilliant tunnel through the 
large darkness ; the noisy triumphs and troubles 
of buyers and sellers, the heavy rumble and 
swift whirr of passing traffic, the discord of pas- 
sionate cornet and sentimental concertina, con- 
trast with the great silence that hovers over- 
head. The crowd elbows its way along^ — alert, 
busy, basket-laden, interesting. Here are two 
girls, arm-in-arm, talking noisily, with large 
dyed feathers in their hats. Girls that walk 
and talk that way always wear these feathers. 
165 



1 66 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

Three old women have met at a street corner, 
and two of them are in fiendishly bad tempers. 
'"Ev yer bought yer meat?" inquires the first, 
managing in some indefinable way to make the 
question sound like an insult. 

"Yes, I 'ev bought my meat," answers the 
second with reserved bitterness. 

"Lessee." 

"I ont." 

Attack and retort follow in quick succession. 

The third old woman, who has a tame-rabbit- 
like face, shakes her head sadly : "'Ow you tew 
do carry on ! Afore I'd give way to myself like 
that I'd — I'd — I'd do suthin'." She is unpopu- 
lar, as the didactic generally are. A little far- 
ther on is a brilliant red coat ; Thomas Atkins 
is shedding the glory of his society on a mere 
civilian, and the civilian looks pleased. There 
are boys, inevitable boys, dodging one another 
in the throng and colliding freely with every- 
body else. On the outskirts of the crowd a thin 
blind woman is seated in the shadow ; she is 
reading a Bible in raised characters, very slowly, 
syllable by syllable ; she has not a large audi- 



SA TURD A V NIGHT IN EDGWARE ROAD. 167 

ence, but Joolyer has laid a detaining hand on 

Awthur's arm, and the two listen for a moment. 

"That allers do seem to me so wun'ful," says 

Joolyer, with a pensive expression on her florid 

face. "An' don't she do it bewtiful, too?" 

Awthur agrees with some hesitation ; he is 

genial, patronizing, and slightly fatuous. 

"Well, mebby; I've seen that kind o' thing — 

well — pretty frequent, I might say." Joolyer 

does not press the point ; her attention has 

been attracted elsewhere. "Look 'ere, Awthur 

— one o' them niggers with a strorrat and a 

banjo. Kimmalong." The nigger takes up 

his position at the entrance to a public house 

with plenty of light upon him. Words and 

tune are recognizable : 

" Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber 
Dere's wha de old folks stay." 

"'Ow that does remoind me!" says Joolyer 
sentimentally. Pleasant things are pleasantest 
in the memory. "You aint forgotten yet that 
night in May, down at the Welsh 'Arp which is 
'Endon way," sings Mr. Chevalier. 

The nigger bases his appeal to our charity on 



l68 I LAY THINGS AND PARODIES. 

the fact that he has made music, and blacked 
his face. Another man supplements his cornet 
with the statement that he is blind. A third 
can plead not only that he has lost one arm, but 
that he turns a mechanical piano with the other. 
In an age of competition we have, apparently, 
to eke out our attainments with our afflictions. 
But this crowd has not come out to-night 
merely with a view to distribute largess and suf- 
fer tunes. Barrows mean business. On one of 
them a small scaffolding has been erected from 
which rows of skinned rabbits are swinging, 
shining, unseemly, unspeakably blue. Oysters 
are to be purchased at sixpence a dozen ; a 
monstrous melon may be bought for three- 
pence, and a cokernut for twopence. Other 
stalls offer to us wherewithal we may be clothed ; 
on one are displayed collars and shirt-fronts ; at 
another, the salesman is pleading with elo- 
quence, with pathos, with all the resources of 
the dramatic art, the advantages of braces. 
"Some on yer," he says, and there are tears in 
his voice, "wear belts. Sooner or liter, if yur 
continyur so doin*, you'll get cramp in the lines. 



SA TURD A Y NIGHT IN EDG WARE ROAD. 169 

I appeal to any medical man 'ere present to say 
if that is not true." At this point he flings 
back his head proudly, and pauses in defiant 
silence looking a little like Landseer's Stag at 
Bay, Then his voice drops to low yet pene- 
trating tones, as he holds forth a sample of his 
goods. "Shall I say a shillin' for these? 'and- 
sewn leather, not brown paper — solid work; 
observe 'ow they stretches ! I will not ask a 
shillin'. For this one night and never agin, 
I offer 'em at sixpence a pair. Your lawst 
chance, gemm'en." Of course, science has its 
place among these barrows. A mild, benefi- 
cent, clean-shaven old man holds up a glass con 
taining some clear magenta-colored liquid. It 
represents the human blood. He pours a drop 
or two from another bottle into it and the clear 
liquid becomes cloudy, changes color, and is 
offensive to the smell. The crowd around test 
this latter point eagerly. This experiment, we 
are told, shows the effect of nicotine on the 
human blood. Smokers among the man's audi- 
ence look at one another dubiously. Can such 
things be? But there is hope for them. The 



17° PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

old man adds something from another bottle 
and the liquid once more becomes clear, bril- 
liant magenta. This illustrates the effect of a 
certain smoking mixture, compounded of many 
herbs, all polysyllabic, which the old man is 
now prepared to sell in packets; a little of it 
mixed with tobacco kills the nicotine and ren- 
ders it innocuous. Some little distance away 
an old woman is the proprietor of a model, lit 
by scraps of candle, and bearing an inscription : 
"Kind friends, this is the handiwork of my 
deceased husband, which represents a gold 
mine. By paying a penny the figures will 
work, and you will receive a planet of your 
fortune." She is not doing very good busi- 
ness ; a man with a barrow-load of caged birds 
is doing better. "The air's a bit sharpish, else 
he'd be singin' now," he says of one yellow bird. 
"Sings fit to bust 'isself, 'e does. And quality! 
Any fancier 'ud pick that bird out among a 
thousand." It seems possible to sell almost 
anything in the Edgware Road on Saturday 
night, provided that the price is low. Cheap- 
ness has a greater attraction than desirability. 



XL— AT A FIRE. 

Although my chambers are quite at the 
top of the staircase, I sometimes, when I am in 
them, hear, invokintarily, what is being said by 
a passer-by. There are voices which travel 
almost any distance. To-night, as I was busily 
engaged in writing a popular scientific article, 
one of these penetrating voices passed under 
my window, and sent a remark skyward. It 
looked in upon me on its way, and it im- 
pressed me : 

"An' it's a big fire, too." 

I drew back the curtain and looked out. 
The sky was positively glorious, and one's first 
instinct was to wonder why we could not have 
such beauty every night. When, a few minutes 
afterward, I joined the crowd in the Strand, I 
could not but notice the increase of life and 
energy and brightness. The loafer had found 
a new interest, and walked briskly in pursuit 



172 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

of it. Draggled, dull-eyed young women, join- 
ing the hurrying crowd, grew more fervent and 
spirited. Urchins dashed past, filled with de- 
lightful, unspeakable excitement. Even the 
bare, bald face of the Law Courts was lighted 
up with a roseate, almost illegal, joyousness. 
Up Wych Street and up Drury Lane went the 
straggling crowd, knowing the way as crowds 
always do. An old man standing on the outside 
of a public house, and thinking about the inside, 
stayed me with the look of the Ancient Mariner, 
and sought from me a lucifer match. "My soul !" 
he ejaculated, as he tried to suck the flame into 
the fetid remnants of tobacco in his clay pipe, 
"if thet should be a theayter now — thet over 
theerl" He was not going on with us to 
assure himself on this point. He was too old 
to hurry much, I think, and he still had hope 
that some kind patron might take him in and 
finance his drunkenness. But what business 
had he to damp the popular enjoyment by 
such talk? He saw only the disaster; he was 
too old to feel the attraction of a fire, as we 
did. As we passed down Long Acre the at- 



ATA FIRE. 173 

traction almost seemed to be calling us in intel- 
ligible language. "Here is a beautiful show 
and you pay nothing to see it. Thousands of 
pounds' worth of someone else's property are 
being destroyed. Be quick, because the quick- 
est will get the best places. Be quick!" 

It was mean, distinctly mean, of the voice of 
the fire to call us down Long Acre, for there 
were certain policemen there who had failed to 
take a right view of a fire ; instead of regarding 
it as a show, and pointing out to us the best 
places from which to see it, they actually stood 
in our way, and refused to let us interfere with 
the operations of the firemen, as if the main 
object were to put out the fire as soon as pos- 
sible. The full glories of Castle Street and 
Neal Street, where the fire was raging, were 
hidden from us. There we were — a fair sample 
of the people of London — longing to witness a 
fine artistic effect, and willing that someone 
else should pay any price for it, yet prevented 
by the police ! We stood in a close crowd be- 
hind them ; and if some of us said bitter things 
to them, at any rate we did not behave as 



J 74 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

badly as the crowd in Endell Street, which 
broke through their line. We could see 
sparks, and smoke, and the reddish-yellow 
glare ; we could see occasionally a fireman's 
helmet; we could hear the regular panting of 
the engines — we had not altogether lived in 
vain. One small boy, with an important ex- 
pression on his dirty face, was seated astride a 
man's shoulders to obtain a better view. He 
did not seem to know the man in the least, but 
simply to have used him in the absence of a 
lamp-post. His conversation was chiefly ad- 
dressed to a less fortunate little boy down 
below. '"Ere's another injun. Bill!" he cried, 
as the crowd parted right and left to make way 
for it. There was one that sat on it who wore, 
not helmet and uniform, but the ordinary hat 
and overcoat. The small boy pointed him out 
at once. "And that's the Prince o' Wiles!" he 
added with enthusiasm. He did not think it. 
It was simply that the hilariousness of the 
occasion had awakened in him a great need 
which only wild, almost brilliant mendacity 
could satisfy. This hilariousness was apparent 



AT A FIRE. 175 



everywhere. If you want to see really bright, 
happy faces in London, look at a crowd which 
is watching a great disaster. But presently 
the small boy became dissatisfied with the lim- 
ited view and his elevated position. "This 
'ere's no use, Bill," he said meditatively. "I 
know the plice — Covink Gar'n." He climbed 
down from the man, without taking any more 
notice of him than if he had actually been a 
lamp-post, and went off with Bill to James 
Street. So did I. 

One could see a little more here. At the 
upper end of the street the scaffolding of an 
unfinished building had been converted into a 
grand stand by the crowd. One could see a 
wall of the burning building. Flames were 
lolling out of the windows and looking at us. 
The wall seemed to be standing alone, black 
against a background of fire and bright smoke. 
The crowd watched it intently, knowing that it 
must soon fall, and whiled away the time by 
inventing, and subsequently believing, exag- 
gerated accounts of the extent of the conflagra- 
tion. At last the wall came down, in rather a 



176 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

theatrical way; and after that there was very- 
little left for anyone to see. One almost ex- 
pected to hear an orchestra play the National 
Anthem, and see the audience move away, 
chatting about the performance. They did 
not, however, move away at once ; crowds are 
always sanguine, and they probably waited in 
the hope that some other house might catch 
fire. The general opinion was that it had not 
been a bad fire, as far as extent goes ; but that 
the style was poor, and that it was lacking in 
incident. 



XII.— OXFORD STREET. 

A CERTAIN part of Oxford Street might pos- 
sibly be defined as the mean between Totten- 
ham Court Road and Regent Street, between a 
narrow escape from squalor and a near approach 
to elegance. But, if it is considered as a whole, 
it seems too great for any brief definition. It 
merges from Holborn, with its bookshops, and 
restaurants, and certain cure for corns. It takes 
upon itself the glories of greater and more 
advertised commerce. It tolerates the most 
unimportant side streets, and brushes past the 
professional quarter where stethoscopes and re- 
spectability are equally common. At Regent 
Street it grows a little uneasy ; it feels that it is 
going west, and must make an effort. It rises; 
not only does it go up a hill, it also seeks a 
higher culture, and begins to have higher social 
aims. And at last it sees the northern end of 
Park Lane, and dies in rapture. Its variety is 

^77 



178 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

too immense to be held by any meager network 
of words — any paltry definition. It has its 
theater and does not disdain its musical hall; 
and if its amusements or its commerce should 
tend to make it too worldly, there are correct- 
ives at hand — a chapel and a station of the 
Salvation Army. Its traffic knows nothing of 
social distinction. Two fat horses, with coats 
arsenically glossy and opinions about bearing- 
reins, have the honor of taking their mistress to 
the circulating library. Omnibus after omnibus 
is willing to take absolutely anyone to the Bank 
for one penny. Through the maze of vehicles 
at the cross-streets a donkey, respondent to the 
stick and the expressions of the proprietor be- 
hind it, miraculously finds its way. A cyclist 
dodges a cab, and the cabman is rude to the 
cyclist. The ting of the bell, the rattle of 
wheels, the babble of voices, make up the 
orchestra to which this performance goes on, 
as it seems, continually — the quaint mixture of 
tragedy, comedy, and farce that fascinates one 
every day in a great London thoroughfare. 
And yet, with all this variety, there are types 



OXFORD STREET. 179 

which seem to be very common. Often has 
one seen at the corner of Tottenham Court 
Road the respectable elderly woman telling a 
story to another respectable elderly woman 
while she waits for her omnibus. And the 
story is always too long for the time at her dis- 
posal. "So I sez nuthin'. I just lets him run 
on. 'E seemed what you might call surprised, 
too, at my not answering of 'im back. But, 
thinks I to myself, let 'im talk if 'e wants to 
talk, knowin' very well in my own mind as 'e'd 
be very sorry for it arftwuds. An' larst of all 
I sez: 'Might I arst yur a pline question when 
you've quite done all that?' And — bless your 
soul ! — afore 'e could speak another word, in she 
come — the girl 'erself with a jug o' beer in 'er 
'and ! You never saw a man so took aback in 

all your " At this moment the cry of 

"Lunbridge! Lunbridge Rylewye!" breaks 
into the story. "Well, Eliza, I leave yer to im- 
ajun it," she says, as she turns to the omnibus. 
Then there are the two children of the street 
gazing at the brilliant unwholesomeness in the 
confectioners' window. "I should like to 'ave 



ISO PL A Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

some of them,'' says the little girl, pointing, with 
the instinct of her sex, to the pinkest sweet- 
meats in the collection. The little boy, with 
an air of experience, corrects her. "They don't 
lawst. Now, did yer ever 'ave any of tJiose — 
them black 'uns in the corner? No? Well, I 
'ave, then. I made pne of them lawst me bes' 
part of a day — off and on." The last three 
words are terrible. The venders of penny toys, 
double numbers, and flowers, are all permanent 
types. Those with the saddest story, fre- 
quently, with some inconsistency, sell the fun- 
niest papers. "Larst number of 'Screamin' 
Jokes' — one penny," whines one shivering 
woman. "Deer lyedy, do buy, and'elp me to 
get abed to-night. A thousand laughs for one 
penny. I've got children to feed, kind lyedy. 
Ill'strated throughout." The women who have 
been shopping are interesting. It is sometimes 
possible to guess what their negotiations have 
been inside a shop from the expression on their 
faces as they leave it. There is a certain masterly 
look sometimes seen on a woman's face on such 
occasions. The light of battle gleams in her 



OXFORD STREET. 



eyes. One knows that something was not at 
all what she had ordered, and that she has 
made them take it back. They were a little 
reluctant at first, but they had to give way. 
She triumphs, and within the shop the air is 
thick with apologies. There is the woman who 
emerges from the glass doors with rather a 
troubled look in her eyes. She has bought 
something, and thinks she has given rather too 
much for it. And there is that look of almost 
saintlike ecstasy which marks those who have 
perfectly satisfied themselves and anticipate 
envy. All may be seen any day outside the 
shops in Oxford Street. 

Those shop windows are too alluring. It is 
impossible for anyone, of either sex or any na- 
ture, to get down Oxford Street without either 
making a purchase or else coveting and desir- 
ing. Covetousness stands open-eyed before 
each jeweler's shop. Reminiscence also has its 
place there. It is always a delight to a woman 
to suddenly come upon one just like Maria's in 
a shop window. She points out the coincidence 
to her companion. "There yer are," says a tall 



1 82 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

woman in black, with high cheekbones and 
decayed bonnet; "it was a 'arf 'oop, an' as like 
that as two pins. I don't say 'e ever paid four 
sov'rings for the one as 'e give 'er. Not but 
what 'e could well afford it, mind yen But 
there — she showed me 'ers last Sunday when I 
was down Fulham, and that's the very model 
of it." 

On Sundays Oxford Street loses some of its 
commercial air. Its eyes are closed ; its shut- 
ters are down. The traffic still goes on, but 
Oxford Street is now the means and not the 
end ; it exists not as a bazaar, but as a road from 
one place to another. The Salvation Army 
parade it. There is noise enough and crowd 
enough on Sundays. There are hours, dark 
hours in the early morning, when the street is 
far more silent ; even the traffic has gone. One 
sees, looking down it, the long line of lights, the 
gleam of wet pavements, the closed shutters, 
the dreariness and emptiness. The street, like 
the face of a man, looks quite different in sleep. 



XIIL— NOON IN JUDEA. 

The East of London is a large district — 
so large that there is room in it for variety. 
There is space for the Jew to be essentially 
Jewish, for the workman to work or to agitate, 
for the thief to thieve, for the murderer to mur- 
der, and for the police to catch him if they can. 
Close to the noisy main street, with the crowds 
and the many vehicles of noon, rests the quiet 
group of the old Trinity almshouses; the flag 
in the center of their inclosure is half-mast high 
to-day— peaceful death on one side of the pave- 
ment and the war of life on the other. Over 
the gate of the inclosure a notice forbids the 
entrance of strangers, hawkers, perambulators, 
beggars, or dogs. So peace may be possible 
there; but I ranked in one or more of these 
prohibited classes, and I could not enter. I 
could only admire the flowers, gazing strenu- 
ously through the gateway, and then pass far- 
183 



1 84 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

ther westward to Whitechapel, where flowers 
in their native soil are of less account than fruit 
on barrows. Even the main thoroughfare is 
full of variety ; it varies with the day and the 
hour. Not every day, as in the time of the 
Dock Strikes, does one see the hungry crowd 
gathered outside the "Food and Shelter" of 
the Salvation Army. Not every hour, as now, 
have the street loafers the always new, and to 
them inexpensive, pleasure of a street accident. 
This time, I learn, a van and two horses have 
attempted to perforate a wall. They have 
failed, and have been removed. There is noth- 
ing left but a little blood, slowly mixing with 
the dust and mud of the pavement, around 
which the crowd stands and entertains conject- 
ures. Whitechapel at noon, with the watery 
sunlight coming fitfully through a sky of almost 
even gray, looks one thing to me ; to the work- 
man who lives here, as he comes back from his 
work at night, though it should be earlier, and 
sees the lighted clock of St. Mary's winking 
drowsily at him through the fog. Whitechapel 
looks something quite different. As I turn up 



NOON IN JUDEA. 185 

Petticoat Lane, I remember that if I had come 
on a Sunday morning, I should have found it 
far more crowded, and the Jewish population 
would have been busy there with gambling and 
speculation. The poverty of the East is bril- 
liant with variety in its outward aspect. It is 
only from within that one feels sure that to 
many life must seem but a dull monotone, 
made lurid at rare intervals with some cheap 
sensuality. 

The names painted over the shop doors, the 
faces of the people in the streets, and the lan- 
guage they speak proclaim their Jewish origin. 
It has been computed that there are not less 
that sixty thousand Jews in London. The 
other nations would have none of them, and 
England, crowded as she was and is, found 
room for them ; or they found it for them- 
selves. As one passes through the squalid 
streets, and watches the crowds of the poorer, 
though not of the utterly destitute class, one 
wonders if the Jews — of this quarter, at least — 
do not still sigh at times for the flesh-pots of 
Egypt. 



1 86 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

There are grades in their poverty. It would 
be unsafe, perhaps, to estimate from the ap- 
pearance of a shop the income of its Jewish 
proprietor; but the shop has a more substan- 
tial air than the barrow; the salesman at the 
barrow seems in a position of permanent com- 
fort when compared with the hawker who has 
to carry his own tray ; and the hawker should 
surely pity those hollow-eyed, narrow-chested, 
unshaven men, with the wisp of flannel round 
their throats, and their coats buttoned as tight- 
ly as the presence of buttons will permit, who 
slink softly and sadly along under the shadow 
of the wall, or stand gazing vacantly at the 
street corners. In Wentworth Street there are 
lines of these barrows on either side. At one 
there are leeks and gherkins to suit the Jewish 
palate, at another there are neat rows of 
Hebrew books, wax tapers, and little tin boxes 
with thongs attached to them, to suit the Jew- 
ish form of faith. At others there are bright- 
colored prints, or ornaments of imitation tor- 
toise shell appealing to a love of finery which 
is not characteristic only of the Jewess; for 



NOON IN JUDEA. 187 

Wentworth Street and the neighborhood have 
by no means sunk so low as to altogether neg- 
lect appearances. There are bright feathers in 
the hats of the girls who come streaming down 
Commercial Street in the dinner hour. There 
is a certain similarity in their dress. Velvet 
or cognate material is popular. Jackets and 
gloves are not worn as a rule ; though the 
former may be carried in the hand and used 
to kill flies on the wall. Probably the older 
women who are shopping in Wentworth Street 
know that they do not look altogether unpic- 
turesque with the crimson or scarlet shawl over 
their black hair. There are, of course, any 
number of shops for the sale of second-hand 
clothes; and one dusty, grimy building in the 
neighborhood bears the imposing title of "Ex- 
hibition and Clothes Exchange." Not far from 
it one sees a mysterious notice informing us 
that "The Noah's Ark Dress Suit" can be 
hired. Conjecture or question would be un- 
wise ; to read such a notice is to feel at once 
that there are some things which it is better 
not to know. 



1 88 PLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

The children are not apparently much exer- 
cised on the question of dress. They sit down 
when they are tired, or when they happen to 
think about it, and they never reflect that the 
muddy curbstone may spoil their apparel. As 
a rule, the muddiest curbstone would find the 
task difficult. I noticed one girl make certain 
cabalistic marks all across the pavement with 
white chalk. I thought it was going to be hop- 
scotch, but it was not. When she had com- 
pleted the lines, she seated herself placidly 
against the wall, and swore at any passer-by 
who happened to tread on them. She was 
evidently waiting for some companion to take 
part in the game. On the hard, smooth road 
in Harrow Alley roller skating was going on. 
One pair of skates is enough for three boys. 
Two of them wear a skate on one foot and 
push themselves along with the other. The 
other boy runs behind and says that it is his 
turn. The gravity of some of these children is 
most extraordinary. They play practical jokes 
on one another with absolutely unmoved faces, 
or with one terrible grin. Possibly they have 



NOON IN JUDEA. 189 



already found out the seriousness of every- 
thing, and have no time to waste on the pro- 
longed giggle of the amused aristocrat. Many 
of these children have the most beautiful faces, 
but their hair is often spoiled by being twisted 
into an absurd sort of top-knot or by a painful 
artificial shininess. Among the women one 
sees of course a number of brown wigs. They 
do not pretend to be anything but wigs. 
Sometimes they are pushed a little backward, 
and a fringe of the natural hair shows in front. 
The whole place is full of incongruities. At 
one of the barrows a tall, fine woman is stand- 
ing. She has a Spanish face, and liquid, tragic 
eyes. Her age may be anything between forty 
and sixty. Pity and contempt are expressed in 
her gaze. How stately and magnificent she 
would look before the footlights, a queen of 
tragedy, with the best blank verse falling 
rhythmically from her full lips! At the pres- 
ent time she is differing with the proprietor of 
the barrow as to the price of certain vegetables. 
One notices that the Jew loves to deal in com- 
modities of which the prices fluctuate, such as 



ipo PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

green grocery. Or, again, one passes many a 
stall where the frayed garments of last year are 
sold and finds close at hand a little shop hung 
with old armor. A tin hat-case of curious 
shape recalls a fashion of many years ago. 
When shall we wear three-cornered hats again ? 
And had the bright and beautiful people who 
wore them of yore anything in common with 
that gaudy youth yonder who is bargaining for 
more second-hand brilliancies. Amid such 
scenes one recalls the words of the gentle and 
genial Teufelsdrockh : "Often, while I sojourned 
in that monstrous tuberosity of civilized life, 
the capital of England— and meditated and 
questioned destiny, under that ink-sea of vapor, 
black, thick, and multifarious as Spartan broth 
— and was one lone soul amid those grinding 
millions — often have I turned into their old 
clothes market to worship." The reason, it 
will be remembered, was that the philosopher 
desired to worship man as the Temple of the 
Divinity, but that man had the misfortune to 
be also possessed of the devil, and vanity, the 
"clearest phasis" of the devil, would have ap- 



NOON IN J UD^A . 191 

propriated the worship ; and so Teufelsdrockh 
was constrained instead "to do reverence to 
those shells and outer husks of the body," to 
cast-off clothes. Less far-fetched reasons have 
led to more than one variety here of another 
form of worship. Laborarc est orare. The 
service of man, whether in connection with 
other services or not, profits more than the 
ironical devotion of that imaginary and imag- 
inative philosopher. Nor is it limited to that 
fragment of the great East End in which I 
lingered for a few minutes to-day, and caught a 
glimpse of Toynbee and St. Jude's. 



XIV.— AT KEW. 

I HAD mounted to the outside of a four- 
horse omnibus. There is a combination of 
pomp and cheapness about a four-horse omni- 
bus that always pleases me. Besides^ it is 
more appropriate to a Bank holiday. It has 
a festive appearance not to be found in the 
lowlier two-horse conveyance. The very horses 
seem to be filled with the dignity of the thing; 
the driver wears a better hat and smokes a 
browner cigar; no one could guess that some- 
where in its black past this same omnibus was 
in the habit of carrying clerks to the City for 
an ordinary penny. It is difificult to ride on a 
four-horse omnibus without looking joyous; 
but out of pride I attempted it. 

The drive was almost entirely without inci- 
dents. We paused at a public house, after we 
had gone through Hammersmith, and the bet- 
ter sort of us drank glasses of stout, and ate 



AT KEW. 193 



buns. We crossed to Kew Bridge with consider- 
able spirit and dash ; and there I descended to 
mingle with the brilliant throng in the road that 
skirts the green. I went straight on to the Gar- 
dens, not stopping to buy a mouth organ, a tin 
money box, a fragment of terrible pineapple 
rock, or any of the other goods offered for sale 
on the line of stalls. At the stately entrance 
to the Gardens I paused for a moment ; and 
there I read the notice which says that only 
the decently dressed are allowed to enter. 
Through the gateway I could see the blood-red 
waistcoat and the flashing buttons of one who 
doubtless would enforce this order. 

As a general rule I am law-abiding. But it 
seemed cruel that I should have come so far 
and then be rejected at the very gates ; so I 
waited my opportunity, and when for a moment 
the head of the janitor was averted, I effected 
my entrance. Kew Gardens are not as Hamp- 
stead Heath on an August Bank holiday; here 
one almost trembles in the presence of the great 
decorum. For the most part, the visitors to 
the Kew Gardens represented the more respec- 



194 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

table of the lower middle classes. They saw 
notices forbidding them to walk on the edge 
of the grass, and they were obedient ; they 
knocked out their pipes, as the law demanded, 
before entering the holy hothouses ; they gazed 
on the prim flower-beds and drank in the spirit 
of perfect formality. But all were not quite 
tame. The children Vv'ere natural. And that 
young man of London whom the humorists have 
called 'Arry but who calls himself 'Erry (unless 
he is Cholly or Albut), was just as vivid and 
ebullient here as he is everywhere on Bank holi- 
day. The only real objection to keeping chil- 
dren is that they grow up ; it was sad to think 
that the lovely child probably would become 
the unlovely Cholly. 

In the essay "Of Love" we read: "This 
Passion hath its Flouds, in the very times of 
Weaknesse ; which 3.rc, gvcat Prosperitie ; and 
great Adversities Bank holiday is one of the 
"times of Weaknesse" for the young man of 
London. It is then, above all other times, that 
he allows his fancy to lightly turn. One noticed 
this in the gravel walks and shaded alleys of 



AT KEJV. 195 



Kew. On every garden-seat there seemed to be 
two people, of opposite sexes, seated — a blot 
on the decorum. The attitude in every case 
seemed to be the same ; there was a gallant dis- 
regard of publicity about it. Owing to the 
arrangement of the paths, one could not always 
avoid giving surprises. I never wanted to hear 
Albert refused by the only woman whom he 
could think about seriously ; but the sudden 
turn of the path left me no option. I have 
noticed that the presence of female society 
always makes a marked difference in these 
young men ; it either lowers or heightens their 
tone. Sometimes it lowers it almost to the 
point of imbecility. As the crowd passed in 
procession through one of the houses, the exi- 
gencies of space forced me to keep immediately 
behind Frenk and to hear what he said to her. 
He called everything "nice" or "very nice." 
He called a giant cactus from Mexico which is 
something like a prickly bolster standing on 
end, "really very nice." Regard for her had 
destroyed in him all perception of quality in 
other things. It was almost pathetic ; she was 



196 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



not so deeply affected, and noticed all the main 
points in the vegetable and animal contents of 
the grass house. "See there, that's grown all 
skew-wise. That one's more like india-rubber 
than anything." Then in a hushed whisper, not 
to be heard by the girl a little way in front of 
them : "Owdjer like me to 'ave my 'air done like 
that?" The young man is at his worst when 
love has heightened his tone, and made him 
jocular and noisy. He picks up the cast feath- 
ers of birds, and sticks them in his hat ; if he is 
carrying any garment for her, he puts it on him- 
self humorously ; he rushes humorously at a low 
fence as though he would jump it ; it is not only 
humor which prevents him from making the 
attempt ; then he makes a personal remark 
about the nearest old lady and whistles. "I do 
wish you wouldn't be so sarcastic, Awthur," 
says his fair companion. 

The interest in the Gardens themselves did 
not seem to be an interest in botany. In a 
secluded part of the Gardens I noticed some- 
thing which was wanting to be a tree. So far it 
had only got seven feet of stem, absolutely bare 



AT KEW. 197 



except for the label, and one bough at the top 
of it — a small, solitary bough that looked mel- 
ancholy, as if it wished it were greener. An 
old gentleman with a thin white face, a stoop, 
and a silk hat much too large for him, was ex- 
amining the label with an interest which I felt 
sure must be scientific. But I have no positive 
proof that he was a botanist. Most of the vis- 
itors had come with the intention of visiting all 
the main features of the Gardens, and had no 
time for such minor matters as labels. There 
were the glass houses, the pagoda, the North col- 
lection, the museums, the refreshment house — 
all requiring inspection. The refreshment house 
is intensely rustic, with striped awnings, and 
climbing plants, and hanging baskets of flowers. 
I lunched there. The museums seemed to be 
used more as a shelter from the rain than as 
collections of scientific interest. Museums de- 
mand so much previous knowledge ; letters 
written in Tamil on palmyra leaves would be 
more interesting if one could read Tamil ; the 
band of cotton cloth, which — the label tells us 
— is the only garment M'orn by Toddymen, 



1 98 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

offers chances to the humorist ; but, then, what 
are Toddymen? Possibly the information is 
on some label that I did not see; I rarely lin- 
ger in museums. Possibly, it is in the official 
guides; I never buy official guides; they take 
the poetry out of everything. 

As I stood outside the Gardens waiting for 
the omnibus, I saw two men leaning sadly 
against a wall. One was bad-tempered and the 
other was fatuous. 

"Got any more money fer booze?" inquired 
the first. 

"No," said the other, shaking his feeble head, 
"I aint." 

"And yer call this Bangkoldy !" said his 
companion vindictively. 

"I begun mine last night — that's 'ow it is." 

"You aint a man whot one can depend on," 
observed the first moodily, as he moved away. 



XV.— "BANGKOLDY" AT HAMP- 
STEAD HEATH. 

The real nature of a worker is best seen on 
his holiday. The routine of business does not 
permit the display of much individuality. 
Three grocer's assistants each wearing a white 
apron, each tying up a pound of sugar, and 
each making the same remark on the weather, 
are very similar and not very interesting ; they 
have conformed to a type. A Bank holiday 
sets the individuality free. One of our three 
puts on flannels, and plays cricket all day in the 
sun ; athleticism shows itself, and one can learn 
still more of the man's character from noticing 
his behavior when he is given out 1. b. w. The 
second wears all the more recent additions to 
his wardrobe and takes a young lady to Rosh- 
erville ; here are the rudiments of a man of 
fashion. A third stops in bed till midday, and 
then takes a walk in Brompton Cemetery. His 



200 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

individuality is not, perhaps, quite obvious, for 
routine has broken him. But if he were richer, 
he would probably have a little volume of 
minor verse published. 

Man's necessity is the tram company's oppor- 
tunity. During the morning and afternoon the 
yellow trams were all crowded with passengers 
on their way to Hampstead Heath. Shortly 
before noon they were swarming up the streets 
in the vicinity. There were small children in 
charge of smaller children; groups of girls with 
bright eyes and a certain freedom of manner; 
women of swarthy complexion, with white or 
brilliantly colored handkerchiefs on their heads, 
some of them with trained birds in cages to 
assist them in" probing the secrets of destiny; 
young men in their Sunday clothes, looking 
very proud of the young women, also in Sun- 
day clothes, whom they were escorting; urchins 
with pence in their pockets and a tumble from 
a hired donkey in their immediate future ; and 
fat babies in creaking perambulators, wheeled 
by anxious mothers, and personally conducted 
by good-humored, pipe-smoking fathers. All 



" BANGKOLDY" A T HAMPSTEAD HE A TH. 201 

were seeking the fresh air, and sunlight, and 
green open spaces ; and the artificial allurements 
of swings, shows, and sandwiches. The top of 
the Heath v/as a bright and animated scene. 
Against the water on one side of the road don- 
keys could be hired. One little boy was select- 
ing a donkey and being advised in his choice of 
an animal by another little boy who had the air 
of wisdom. " 'Ev that 'un, 'Enry," says Men- 
tor. "I rid 'im myself, and 'e can go proper. 
You doan want no stick. Kick 'im in the 
stomick. 'E can't feel nowhere else." On the 
other side of the road were the swings, stalls 
for the sale of cheap refreshments, and penny 
shows. Each row of swings had a man with a 
mechanical piano near it; and I noticed that 
the music never would keep time with the 
motion of the swings. I did not myself care to 
visit any of the monstrosities; but anyone who 
was moved by the spirit of scientific research, 
or by other motives, had a chance of seeing a 
six-legged dog, and something which was said 
to be a boy and a girl joined together. In the 
crowd here, or further down in the vale, where 



202 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

more shows were grouped, the cries from the 
hawkers and the keepers of the booths made 
one continuous roar. "All the fun of the fair, 
all the jolly fun !" shouts one man who is sell- 
ing scent-squirts. "Ask 'em what they think of 
the show when they come out," is the request 
of one booth proprietor, who knows that, in the 
fallen condition of human nature, a man who 
has been fooled finds no surer consolation than 
to see his fellow-man fooled in the same way. 
"We change all the bad 'uns," is an additional 
inducement to have three shies at the cocoa- 
nuts. " 'It 'im as 'ard as yer like ! Crack' im 
over the 'ead ! Three shies a penny!" was 
the invitation to a somewhat barbarous form of 
amusement, which may sometimes be seen at 
some of the racecourses. A man thrusts his 
head through a hole in a screen, and you throw 
wooden balls at that head. It looks, probably, 
more dangerous than it really is. The man in 
this case dodged well ; and he wore a wig, 
which would be some protection. At any rate, 
I did Rot see him butchered to make a British 
holiday. 



' ' BANGKOLD Y" A T HAMPS TEAD HE A TH. 203 

But the crowd are better to look at than any 
show. They are attracted by such monstrosi- 
ties and cruelties as I have mentioned ; they 
make, it must be owned, a perfectly terrific 
noise; they will defile the Heath with greasy 
newspapers and scraps of food from their pic- 
nics ; yet a man would require a very mean 
mind to feel no affection for them and no sym- 
pathy with their boisterous enjoyment on a 
sunny day. Fine holidays are not so common 
with them that they can afford to devote them 
to a study of culture. They are not, at any 
rate, selfish or self-conscious ; their happiness is 
free and natural. There is more of the spirit of 
camaraderie on Hampstead Heath during the 
August Bank holiday than could be found in 
Piccadilly during the whole season. Each man 
is ready to play a practical joke on his neigh- 
bor, but he is equally ready to do him a good 
turn. I stood on the top of some rising 
ground, from which one could see a good deal 
of the Heath. It was shortly after noon, and 
the midday meal was commencing. All over 
the Heath were scattered little groups, e'ating 



204 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

and laughing. The fat babies had all got out 
of their perambulators and were crawling about 
the grass in all directions. Below me were 
the whirl and noise of the steam roundabout. 
Crowds were passing to and fro from one group 
of stalls to the next, the cheap, bright-colored 
dresses of the girls looking pretty enough at 
a little distance. The sunlight flashed and 
sparkled on the water, where bare-legged boys 
were paddling. There w^as always a crowd 
around the ponds ; the presence of water in any 
considerable quantity had the charm of novelty 
for many. Altogether, there w^ere brightness, 
and energy, and enthusiasm everywhere. 

On the West Heath there was more quiet 
and seclusion; there, under the shade of the 
trees, among ferns that grow breast high, more 
decorous people held more somber picnics. I 
only saw one person reading. She was not 
very pretty, and she wore spectacles. She was 
one of the very few who w^ere quite without 
companions. I came suddenly upon her among 
the ferns. She was reading a novel of the cir- 
culating libraries, and for a few moments she 



" BANGKOLD V" A T HAMPSTEAD HEA TH. 205 

had ceased to be conscious that she was a plain, 
spectacled, solitary girl, whose finger-tips told 
her profession. She was that beautiful and 
passionate heroine, Gwendoline, sitting in a 
dim-lit conservatory, tired of the brilliant glare 
of the ballroom, and being assured spasmodi- 
cally of the constant love of a handsome peer, 
in the usual "faultless evening dress." 



THE GHOST OF "GHOSTS.' 



THE GHOST OF "GHOSTS." 

FROM " EVERY MAN HIS OWN IBSEN," 

A spacious garden-room, with one door to the left and tivo 
doors to the right. In the center of the room is another door, 
with a window rather more in the foreground. A small sofa 
stands in front of it. In the background are two more doors, 
the right-hand door leading to the conservatory, from which a 
door opens into the garden, from which another door opens into 
the street. Through a zuindow betzveen the first tzvo doors one 
catches a glimpse of a gloomy tool-shed, from which a door leads 
into the conservatory. A staircase runs from the third windozu 
to the fourteenth door. There are books and periodicals on the 
staircase, and a piano on the hire system. So now you know 
exactly zvhat the scene is like. 

Mrs. Alving stands with a shawl on her head — {a little 
ambiguous, but you can see what is meant) — in front of the 
right-hand window. Oswald Mantalini Alving, her son, 
stands partly in front of her and partly behind her. Pastor 
Chadband Manders is zuinding up the clock. Regina is 
seated at the piano cleaning his boots. 

Oswald {drearily). Tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac! 

Mrs. Alving. I beg your pardon? 

Oswald. I wish I were a clock, dearest 
mother. I feel that I want someone to regu- 
late my actions. I am so afraid — afraid of my- 
209 



2IO PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

self and the darkness. I do not know, some- 
times, what I shall do next. And what a ter- 
rible night it is ! {A pause.) I want Regina, 
mother. She would save me from myself. 
When the dread comes on me, raging and tear- 
ing — don't scream — I feel the need of her. I 
want many things. I am thirsty, always thirsty. 
I want to drink champagne. 

{A sharp click is heard.) 

Manders. I have broken the mainspring of 
your clock, Mrs. Alving. It is a judgment upon 
this abode of sin. 

{He goes out hurriedly througJi the zvindozv.) 

Oswald. I am going to smoke — you're not 
to scream. {Aside) Oh, the bitterness of having 
a fog-horn for a mother ! And yet I love her. 

{He draws a large meerschaum from his 
pocket^ 

Mrs. Alving. Why, that was your father's 
pipe — no, my dear and only son, you must not 
smoke in here. 

Oswald. I must, mother. I want to be 
happy. {Lights pipe.) I can remember it all 
so distinctly. 



THE GHOST OF " GHOSTS." 



Mrs. Alving. What? Why? Who? 

Oswald. I was seven years old. I had taken 
this pipe from my father's room, and I was 
smoking it. He found me doing it, and took 
me across his knee 

Mrs. Alving {correcting- hhn quickly). Took 
you on his knee, you mean. He always petted 
his dear boy. 

Oswald. No, across his knee. 

Mrs. Alving. Ah! he was brimming over 
with the joy of life. He would jest with you, 
but he loved you. He was an indulgent parent. 
If you wanted anything, hie would give it you. 

Oswald {smiling sadly). He did gwe it me 
— with a slipper. 

Mrs. Alving. Oh, you can recollect nothing 
of those times. You were too young to under- 
stand—to feel things properly. 

Oswald {still smiling sadly). But I did feel 
it properly, I can tell you. 

Manders {puts /lis head in at the other 
ivindow). My boots? 

Regina {petulantly). They are not done 
yet, sir. 



212 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

Manders. They ought to be done. You 
have been all your life under the dominion of a 
pestilent spirit of self-will. {Playfully^ O 
Reginah ! 

{He removes his head—fror7i the windoiv, 
that ts) 

Oswald. Do you want me to be happy, 
mother? 

Mrs. Alving. You know, my dear son, that 
I live for you alone. You are the soul of 
my soul. You are my life, my world, my 
Oswald Mantalini ! How can you ask me 
that? {More slowly) Yes; I want you to — be — 
happy. 

{A pause. Harmonium in Orchestra, with 
the tremulant stop out, plays ' Rocked in the 
Cradle of the Deep' very softly. Mrs. Alving 
seats herself on the sofa. Osivald draws a 
chair to her side, and buries his head in his 
hands.) 

Oswald {slowly exhuming his head). Then, 
if that be so, you must not let me think. If I 
think, I shall — don't scream — I really shall, and 
it will be your fault. It is not enough for me 



THE GHOST OF "GHOSTS." 213 

to smoke. I must also drink champagne con- 
stantly. 

Mrs. Alving. Yes; but, my dear Oswald, 
when you consider how much you have al- 
ready 

Oswald. Ah ! when the torment and the 
agony and the anguish 

Mrs. Alving. Regina, you might fetch us a 
small bottle of lager. 

Regina. Very well, ma'am. {Goes out.) 

Oswald {stout-ajid-bitterly). Lager! 

Mrs. Alving. I cannot deny you anything, 
my boy. You must live here always now, and 
forget your troubles. I cannot have my boy 
worried. Diddums, then? 

Regina {brings a tray with bottle and two 
glasses, which she sets on the piano). Pastor 
Manders's boots are cleaned now. 

Mrs. Alving. Then you need not wait. 
Take them to him. 

{Regina goes out into the conservatory, leav- 
ing door open behind her.) 

Manders {outside in the conservatory). O 
Reginah ! My ownest ! 



214 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

{From within the conservatory conies the noise 
of falling pla7it -pots and at the same moment is 
heard .•) 

Regina {sharply). You didn't dodge that 
one, Pastor Manders ! 

Oswald {bnsy opening the bottle). Now, 
then. {The cork pops, he fills and empties his 
glass.) You won't have any, mother? 

Mrs. Alving. None for me, thank you. 

{He finishes the bottle ; Mrs. A Iving ivatches 
him anxiously^ 

Manders {enters from the consei'vatory, and 
seats himself on the hire system, removing frag- 
ments of plant-pot from his hair and clothes). 
Did I, or did I not, hear the sound of a cork? 

Oswald. You did ; but I, unfortunately, 
have finished the bottle. 

Manders. It was ungenerous in you, Oswald. 
It was unlike you. It was unworthy of the 
memory of your dead father, in whose honor 
yonder noble tool-shed has been erected {bowing 
to Mrs. Alving) by one who loved him. I 
stood there just now, and as I looked at the 
patent grass-cutter which it shelters, I thought 



THE GHOST OF "GHOSTS." 215 

how exquisitely appropriate the monument was 
to one who was ever thirsty — who always 
wanted a little mower. 

Oswald {aside). Oh, remove that man ! 

Mrs. Alving {aside). Always thirsty! So 
is Oswald. Ghosts! ghosts! 

Manders. So you have finished the bottle. 
No matter. It is only the spirit of rebellion 
that craves for happiness in this life. 

Oswald {despairingly). Craves for happi- 
ness ! What can you know about it, sir? Have 
you experienced the thawing noughts — I mean 
the gnawing thoughts — the biting, carking, 
lacerating, torturing, deadly pangs that at this 
moment are rending my very inmost 

Mk?). Aiming {clasping her hands and calling 
into the conservatory). Regina ! Regina ! Bring 
a soda-and-milk. {Regina enters from the con- 
servatory and goes np the staircase to the cozvs 
stable.) My son, you shall know the joy of life. 
You shall feel the hot blood mantalining to 
your cheek. 

Manders {pointing to the window). Look 
Look! 



2 1 6 PLAY 7 HINGS A ND PA R ODIES. 

Oswald {excitedly). My father's tool-shed 
is on fire. 

{They all rush wildly out and for a few 
moments the stage is empty). 

[Note.— By this time it is probable that the 
auditorium will be empty as well ; so perhaps 
the drama might be considered to stop here). 



A THEME WITH VARIATIONS. 



A THEME WITH VARIATIONS. 



Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, 
To see a fine lady ride on a white horse ; 
With rings on her fingers, and bells on her toes, 
She shall have music wherever she goes. 

VARIATION I. — EDMUND SPENSER. 

So on he pricked, and loe, he gan espy 
A market and a crosse of glist'ning stone. 

And eke a merrie rablement thereby. 
That with the musik of the strong trombone, 
And shaumes, and trompets made most dyvilish mone 

And in their midst he saw a lady sweet, 
That rode upon a milk white steed alone, 

In scarlet robe ycladd and wimple meet. 
Bedight with rings of gold, and bells about her feet. 

Whereat the knight empassioned was so deepe. 

His heart was perst with very agony. 
Certes (said he) I will not eat, ne sleepe, 

Till I have seen the royall maid more ny ; 

Then will I holde her in fast fealtie. 
Whom then a carle advised, louting low, 

That little neede there was for him to die, 
219 



2 20 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

Sithens in yon pavilion was the show, 

Where she did ride, and he for two-and-six mote go. 

VARIATION II. — DR. JONATHAN SWIFT. 

Our Chloe, fresh from London town, 

To country B y comes down, 

Furnished with half-a-thousand graces 
Of silks, brocades, and hoops, and laces ; 
And tired of winning coxcombs' hearts 
On simple bumpkins tries her arts. 
Behold her ambling down the street 
On her white palfrey, sleek and neat. 
(Though rumor talks of gaming-tables, 

And says 'twas won from C 's stables, 

And that, when duns demand their bill. 
She satisfies them at quadrille.) 
Her fingers are encased with rings, 
Although she vows she hates the things. 
(" Oh, la ! Why ever did you buy it } 
Well — it's a pretty gem— I'll try it.") 
The fine French fashions all combine 
To make folks stare, and Chloe shine. 
From ribbon'd hat with monstrous feather. 
To bells upon her under-leather. 

Now, Chloe, why, do you suppose. 
You wear those bells about your toes ? 
Is it, your feet with bells you deck 
For want of bows about your neck } 



A THEME WITH VARIATIONS. 
VARIATION III.— SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

(From " The Lady of the Cake.") 

" Who is this maid in wild array, 

And riding in that curious way ? 

What mean the bells that jingle free 

About her as in revelry ? " 

" 'Tis Madge of Banbury," Roderick said, 

" And she's a trifle off her head. 

'Twas on her bridal morn, I ween, 

When she to Graeme had wedded been. 

The man who undertook to bake, 

Never sent home the wedding cake ! 

Since then she wears those bells and rings. 

Since then she rides — but, hush, she sings.' 

She sung ! The voice in other days 

It had been difficult to praise. 

And now it every sweetness lacked. 

And voice and singer both were cracked. 



They bid me ride the other way. 

They say my brain is warp'd and wrung, 
But, oh ! the bridal bells are gay, 

That I about my feet have strung ! 
And when I face the horse's tail 
I see once more in Banbury's vale 
My Graeme's white plume before me wave, 
So thus I'll ride until the e;^rave. 



PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



They say that this is not my home, 

'Mid Scotland's moors and Scotland's brakes; 
But, oh ! 'tis love that makes me roam 

Forever in the land of cakes ! 
And woe betide the baker's guile. 
Whose blight destroyed the maiden's smile ! 
O woe the day, and woe the deed, 
And woa — gee woa — my bonnie steed ! 



THE POETS AT TEA. 



THE POETS AT TEA. 

I.— iMACAULAY, WHO MADE IT. 

Pour, varlet, pour the water, 

The water steaming hot ! 
A spoonful for each man of us, 

Another for the pot ! 
We shall not drink from amber, 

No Capuan slave shall mix 
For us the snows of Athos 

With port at thirty-six ; 
Whiter than snow the crystals 

Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires, 
More rich the herb of China's field, 
The pasture-lands more fragrance yield ; 
Forever let Britannia wield 

The teapot of her sires ! 

II. — TENNYSON, WHO TOOK IT HOT. 

I think that I am drawing to an end : 
For on a sudden came a gasp for breath, 
And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes. 
And a great darkness falling on my soul. 
O Hallelujah ! . . . kindly pass the milk. 
225 



2 26 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 



III.— SWINBURNE, WHO LET IT GET COLD. 

As the sin that was sweet in the sinning 

Is foul in the ending thereof, 
As the heat of the summer's beginning 

Is past in the winter of love : 
O purity, painful and pleading ! 

coldness, ineffably gray ! 

Oh hear us. our hand-maid unheeding. 
And take it away ! 

IV.— COWPER, WHO THOROUGHLY ENJOYED IT. 

The cozy tire is bright and gay. 
The merry kettle boils away 

And hums a cheerful song. 

1 sing the saucer and the cup ; 
Pray, Mary, fill the teapot up, 

And do not make it strong. 

V. — BROWNING, WHO TREATED IT ALLEGORICALLY. 

Tut ! Bah ! We take as another case — 

Pass the pills on the window-sill ; notice the 
capsule 
(A sick man's fancy, no doubt, but I place 

Reliance on trade-marks. Sir)— so perhaps you'll 
Excuse the digression — this cup which I hold 

Light-poised — Bah, it's spilt in the bed ! — well, 
let's on go — 
Held Bohea and sugar, Sir ; if you were told 

The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo ? 



THE POETS AT TEA. 227 

VI. — WORDSWORTH, WHO GAVE IT AWAY. 

" Come little cottage girl, you seem 

To want my cup of tea ; 
And will you take a little cream ? 

Now tell the truth to me." 

She had a rustic, woodland grin, 

Her cheek was soft as silk, 
And she replied, " Sir, please put in 

A little drop of milk." 

" Why, what put milk into your head ? 

'Tis cream my cows supply ; " 
And five times to the child I said, 

"Why, pig-head, tell me, why ? " 

" You call me pig-head," she replied ; 

" My proper name is Ruth. 
I called that milk " — she blushed with pride — 

" You bade me speak the truth." 

VII. — POE, WHO GOT EXCITED OVER IT. 

Here's a mellow cup of tea — golden tea ! 
What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance 
brings to me ! 

Oh, from out the silver cells 

How it wells ! 

How it smells ! 
Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune 
To the tintinnabulation of the spoon. 



228 



PLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 



And the kettle on the fire 
Boils its spout off with desire, 
With a desperate desire 
And a crystalline endeavor 
Now, now to sit, or never, 
On the top of the pale-faced moon. 
But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, 
Tea to the n— ith. 



VIII.-ROSSETTI, WHO TOOK SIX CUPS OF IT. 
The lilies lie in my lady's bower 

(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost). 
They faintly droop for a little hour ; 
My lady's head droops like a flower. 

She took the porcelain in her hand 
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); 

She poured ; I drank at her command ; 

Drank deep, and now— you understand ! 
(O weary mother, drive the cows to roost). 

IX.— BURNS, WHO LIKED IT ADULTERATED. 
Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined. 
Whusky or tay— to state my mind 

For ane or ither ; 
For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou, 
And gin the next, I'm dull as you. 

Mix a' thegither. 



THE POETS AT TEA. 229 

X.— WALT WHITMAN, WHO DIDN'T STAY MORE THAN 
A MINUTE. 

One cup for my self-hood, 

Many for you. A//ous, camerados, we will drink 

together. 
O hand-in-hand ! That teaspoon, please, when 

you've done with it. 
What butter-colored hair you've got. I don't want 

to be personal. 
All right, then, you needn't — you're a stale — cadaver. 
Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned, 
Allans, from all bat-eyed formules. 



HOME PETS. 



I.— BOYS. 

Reader, do you keep boys ? Are you inter- 
ested in them ? I trust that both my questions 
may be answered in the affirmative. They cost 
more to keep than rabbits or canaries; but, on 
the other hand, they are often more intelligent. 
They can be made to eat out of the hand, 
although they prefer the ordinary knife and 
fork ; they can be taught to jump through 
hoops, to pretend to be dead — some of them 
actually die — and to write their own name ; 
and they can produce the sound of the human 
voice as accurately as any cockatoo that ever 
got itself advertised in a high-class weekly re- 
view. They are more affectionate than guinea- 
pigs, but not so affectionate as dogs. They are 
not so clean as cats, but the method of washing 
adopted by the two animals is totally different. 
They are so common that the expense ought 
not to prevent any family from securing one. 
233 



234 PLA YTHIXGS AND PARODIES. 

" How am I- to feed it ? " is the question 
which any fancier naturally asks about a new 
pet. You can feed boys on just the same sort 
of food that you yourself would eat. You must 
remember, however, that they also crave for 
intellectual sustenance. If they are not pro- 
vided with it, they ought to pine away. It is as 
well to mention this because it is a peculiarity 
of boys. You yourself — supposing you to be an 
average person — feel no necessity for it. You 
read the daily papers, novels, and occasionally 
the time-tables. That is enough for you. But 
aboy ought to desire more ; his natural instincts 
would make him devour greedily anything that 
was at ail high-toned, such as history, meta- 
physics, poetry. Unfortunately some boys 
will rebel against their natural instincts. 

At one time in my life I was assistant to a 
boy-trainer. We had boys sent there to be 
broken in, and some of them simply would not 
obey their natural instincts, but seemed to 
loathe good intellectual diet. I have known 
boys who seemed to really want to starve their 
souls, although I do not remember a single 



BOYS. 235 

instance of one who cared about starving his 
body. For a short time every day we used to 
give them slices of English poetry to digest and 
get by heart. " I hate that rep.," one of them 
said to me dejectedly, " and they've gone and 
stuck me in the scrum, and put Pilbury, who 
can't play any more than a cow, full-back in my 
place. Rot, I call it." All this was said quite 
distinctly ; you could not have told that you 
were not listening to the sounds of the human 
voice. There are only a few words in the sen- 
tence which distinguish it from our own ordinary 
articulate speech. I have quoted it, however, 
chiefly to show that a boy cannot be depended 
upon to follow his own natural instincts in the 
matter of poetry ; in many cases, unless he is 
made to take it, he will deny himself. I have 
thrown a boy a great piece of " Sordello," and 
seen him sniff at it, and then go away and 
browse on Harrison Ainsworth, which of course 
was not good for him. We may notice, too, 
that in this boy's remarks there v/as something 
suspiciously like logical coherence. I have, in 
fact, noticed less logical coherence in the speech 



236 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

of a live member of Parliament — there is a very- 
fair collection of these, by the way, somewhere 
at Westminster. But then the boy was saying 
all he meant, and the member of Parliament 
was repeating as much as he could recollect. 

The main difference between dogs and boys 
is this : the tamer a dog is, the more tricks he 
will do, but in the boy's case the number of 
tricks varies inversely as the tameness. In fact, 
it is not necessary to teach a boy tricks at all ; 
give him high spirits, a pewter squirt, and a 
window commandinga thoroughfare, and nature 
will do the rest. There is another distinction 
between these two animals. Dogs generally 
have the distemper when they are young ; with 
boys a somewhat analogous complaint only 
occurs in very advanced boyhood. It is called 
sentimentalism. It is generally only a passing 
complaint, and not at all dangerous. The symp- 
toms are easily discoverable. The boy mopes, 
and may be heard to remark that Ouida's 
" Strathmore " is the finest work in the English 
language. He hangs up a photograph in his 
kennel, and begins to be dissatisfied with his 



BOYS. 237 



neckties. How are you to cure him? You can, 
if you like, put a little sulphur — any chemist 
will supply it — in the boy's drinking-water, as 
in the case of sick canaries ; but if you do, it is 
probable that the boy will take it out of you 
in some other way. It is better to apply the 
" School Magazine " at once ; several ounces of 
distressing verse have been extracted in this way 
from bad cases. Perhaps the best remedy is to 
place the patient in the society of boys who 
have not got the complaint. The healthy boys 
will probably kick the sufferer, and this will do 
him good. 

This article might well conclude with several 
instances of the marvelous instinct displayed 
by boys. But the space at my disposal is 
limited ; I can assure you, however, that not 
only are boys, as I have said, often more intel- 
ligent than rabbits and canaries, but stories of 
their intelligence and imitative power would be 
comparatively fresh. The journalistic imagina- 
tion has played freely round the guinea-pig and 
the cockatoo, but has left the boy untouched. 
You have only to acquire a boy, and get rid of 



238 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

your conscience ; then you can make the stones 
for yourself. I may add that quite the best 
people in London now have boys in their 
houses ; a couple of well-bred Eton-marked 
nephews look very well in a drawing room. 
But it is sometimes difficult to make them 
stop here. 



II.— GIRLS. 

Girls are the young of women. Nearly all 
the trouble which fanciers have with these pets 
comes from a failure to recognize this fact. It 
is one of those scientific truths which we simply 
have to face ; it has been proved by observation 
that girls ultimately become women, and it is 
useless to blink the fact. We must expect, 
however much we may lament it, to find several 
points of similarity between girls and women. 
Some women, for instance, play the piano. 
Nearly all girls play ivith the piano. A fancier 
should expect this, and not be frightened at it. 
There is no need to feel nervous when one sees 
a girl shedding her scales ; some trainers even 
insist that they should be encouraged to do it, 
just as they should be encouraged to keep them- 
selves clean. Shortly afterward they may be 
found turning the instrument into a Sydney- 
Smithy ; if you open the top of the piano while 



240 PLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

they are hammering a hard piece, you may see 
sparks fly from the wires. Or you may not. 
But at any rate it is interesting to watch a thin 
little melody working its way home through a 
whirlpool of arpeggios. By all means give a girl 
a piano ; in aggravated cases the pedals can be 
amputated. It is not necessary to give the piano 
chloroform when this operation is performed ; 
besides, all the chloroform will be wanted in the 
rooms underneath the schoolroom during prac- 
tice hours. On one point be very careful ; if 
a girl of her own accord takes to playing the 
common waltz, there is of course something 
wrong. But be sure you find out what the 
catise of the evil is before you give up hope. 
A careless fancier might shoot the girl at once, 
to put her out of her misery ; now, with the 
kindest intentions in the world, he might still 
be making a mistake. Do not kill the girl un- 
til you are quite sure that she is incurable. 
Sometimes a girl plays waltzes because they 
are easier than other music. Get another girl 
to tell her this, and she will never play them 
again. She may say bitter things about the 



GIRLS. 241 



other girl's hat, but this cannot be helped. 
There are of course many other points in which 
a distinct likeness between girls and women 
can be traced. 

What do girls eat ? This is a question which 
very few can answer. They can be made to 
eat much the same food as boys. But they 
have their preferences. Ices and meringues 
make a good everyday diet. But I have in 
my possession a letter from a girl at a girl- 
trainer's giving a list of what was actually eaten 
at a dormitory supper. It is an important 
and valuable document, because it shows 
what unassisted nature prompts a girl to eat. 
It is not given in facsimile, because the print- 
ing of facsimile letters in the public press has 
been sometimes found to lead to unpleasant- 
ness. But these are the items of the repast: 

1. Toast and jam. (The toast was made at the gas, pen- 
holders being used in the place of toasting-forks ; the 
making of it was more popular than the eating of it.) 

2. Toasted gelatines. (These were liked, but it was 
objected that they took a very long time to eat, and the 
gas was only available for half an hour, so only a few 
were cooked.) 



242 PLAYTHINSS AND PARODIES. 

3. Chocolate creams. (The white cream is very good, 
but epicures prefer those with the pink inward parts — 
a rare variety, and believed to be more expensive.) 

4. Plum cake and jam. (At the commencement of the 
term plum cake is always eaten with ''jam; no girl 
with self-respect in at all a rich dormitory could offer 
another girl unjammed cake.) 

5. Cheese-cakes. 

6. Biscuits. (In taking from the tin, it is usual to select 
those which have a plaster of paris ornament, unless 
this variety is obviously scarce, when, of course, 
polttesse oblige?) 

The beverages were cocoa (which was a little 
lumpy, because there was not sufficient time to 
boil the water over the gas and it refused to 
boil over one surreptitious candle), plain sher- 
bet, pink sherbet, and citrate of magnesia with 
sugar. The citrate of magnesia was contributed 
by a girl who was liable to headaches, and had 
brought it from home. Of course the items of 
the repast may vary according to the state of 
plenty which prevails in the dormitory. A 
story is told of one girl who during a period of 
great financial depression attempted to eat 
cherry tooth-paste on bread. In feeding girls, 
a good general rule to remember is this : the 



GIRLS. 243 



taste and wholesomeness of the food do not 
matter as long as the color is pink. 

When a large number of girls are placed 
together, one will generally see friendships 
formed. The two friends always share each 
other's secrets, and never tell them to a single 
soul more than they can help. In violent cases 
they invent pet names for each other, and write 
little notes to say what could be said with 
greater convenience by word of mouth. When 
the friendship is very romantic indeed, these 
little notes are generally written in French ; the 
French is conditioned to some extent by the 
age of the girl and her position in the training 
establishment, but it is generally understood 
that English words may be used where the 
French is not known. For instance : " Je suis 
kept in pour jettant un tennis-ball a la fenetre. 
Restez pour moi apres dans le day-room. J'ai 
quelque chose vous dire tres privatement." To 
put any accents on these elegant little compo- 
sitions would be to reduce them at once to the 
level of an exercise. Two girl friends gener- 
ally pet one another, and sometimes do one 



244 PLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

another's hair. In this respect they differ 
slightly from boy friends. Enmity also pro- 
duces correspondence. I have not the author's 
permission to quote the following instances : 

1. Dear Jane : After what you said to Kitty Syce about 

my boa and she told me so herself I don't see how 
you can expect me ever to speak to you again and it's 
wicked to tell such untruths as you did because you 
must have known. — Ever yours, MiLLY. 

2. Dear Milly : I didn't say anything of the sort and 

I'm sure I don't want you to speak to me I was just 
going to write and tell you I wouldn't speak to you 
myself when I got your letter and you needn't write 
any more because I won't read them. — Yours very 
affectionately, jANE. P. S.— Kitty is a liar. 

It must not be supposed that the correspondence 
ends here. There are thirty-two more letters. 
Of course, at the close of these, Milly and Jane 
form an offensive and defensive alliance against 
Kitty Syce, who does not seem to have been 
at all a nice girl. The letters of enmity, being 
generally written in some haste and heat, are 
not punctuated. The fancier, then, should be 
always on the lookout for any marked signs of 
enmity oramity in his pets, and wheneverthese 
occur, he should put pens, ink, and paper within 



GIRLS. 245 



easy reach. The great passions require them. 
In the case of sentimental friendships always 
provide fancy note paper. 

Let me conclude with a short story of the 
wonderful instinct of girls. It is true in every 
particular. A friend of mine was walking over 
Waterloo Bridge with a girl. She was just the 
ordinary variety of girl, with no special mark- 
ings, and not particularly valuable. Suddenly 
he missed her. He whistled once or twice, and 
then shrugged his shoulders and walked on, 
never expecting, of course, to see her again. In 
fact, he said at the time that he thought she 
must have fallen into the river or got run over. 
However, three weeks after this incident, busi- 
ness had taken him to Edinburgh, and he was 
sitting in his own room at his hotel when he 
heard, as he thought, something scratching at 
the door outside. He opened the door quickly, 
looked out, and found he was mistaken. I may 
mention that the girl had never been in Edin- 
burgh before in her life, was not in Edinburgh 
then, and never went to Edinburgh afterward. 
She has now turned into a woman, and has not 



246 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

since this event given any sign of remarkable 
intelligence. 

I challenge investigation into the facts of 
this story. If it can be proved to be untrue, I 
promise that anyone may pay me the sum of 
;^ 10,000. Can it be wondered that pets with 
so marvelous an instinct are immensely popu- 
lar? For that reason I must repeat my warn- 
ing — girls are the young of woman. The 
gentlest schoolgirl will grow up ; then she 
may lose her temper and marry you. 



III.— RECITERS. 

"There she spouts!" 

Such was the exclamation of an old sea 
captain, recently returned from a whaling ex- 
pedition, when I took him into the yard where 
I keep my reciters. His attention had been 
attracted by a large female, who had drawn 
herself up to her full height and was Eugene- 
Araming shrilly. It was an animated scene. In 
one corner there were two very young male 
reciters. They really looked quite pretty, with 
broad white collars round their throats, bobbing 
and fussing about, and knocking the air at in- 
tervals with their forepaws. Others were busy 
with open books, hitting their foreheads and 
straining their poor memories. Others were 
hurrying up and down the platform steps. I, 
like all humane fanciers, have provided my 
reciters with a little platform ; and, indeed, few 
things give me more pleasure than to see a 
247 



248 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

happy, well-fed reciter bow and retire. The 
good-natured old sea captain drew a handful of 
fresh, crisp press notices from his pocket, and 
flung them down in the inclosure. All the 
reciters rushed upon them at once ; they like a 
good press notice with a little paste to fix it. 
" But why," someone may ask, " do you keep 
your reciters out of doors? " Well, I have tried 
both plans. I once owned a male reciter, twenty 
years of age, slightly built, with fair fluffy hair, 
a weak chin, a nervous manner, a green necktie, 
and the mildest eye I ever saw in man or beast. 
You would have thought, as I did, that it was 
perfectly safe to keep him in the house ; and as 
a rule he was most meek and quiet. But one 
night, when he was on the hearthrug in front of 
the fire, a friend of mine happened to say that 
he thought Mr. Irving was not so bad an actor 
as some amateur whose name I have forgotten. 
The young reciter snapped at him at once, and 
then began to strut up and down the hearthrug, 
shaking his silly head. " Lie down, Arthur ! 
Lie down, sir ! " I said firmly. I had called him 
Arthur after a pet lamb which belonged to my 



RECITERS. 249 



daughter. But he had completely lost control 
over himself, and began to recite most furiously. 
He Death-of-Absalomed all round the room, and 
then went back to the hearthrug, and Charge- 
of-the-Light-Brigaded two valuable vases off the 
mantelpiece. I kicked him out, and resumed 
my conversation. But this wasonly the begin- 
ning of the trouble. I used to let Arthur sleep 
in a disused bedroom at the top of the house, 
and when I turned him out for breaking the 
vases he went up to his room. He caught the 
butler on the staircase, and began The Raven at 
him, frightening the poor man terribly. Finally 
he went deliberately through a humorous pas- 
sage and Shylocked the door after him. It was 
bad enough to have the furniture broken, but I 
will not have my servants ill-treated. So, on 
the following morning, I had Arthur sent out 
into the yard. We found, on examining his 
room, that the lid of the soap-dish was frac- 
tured ; and the scientific expert who attended 
had little doubt that the fracture must have 
b'efen caused by some heavy instrument, prob- 
ably didactic poetry. In the open air Arthur 



250 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

does no harm; he goes Lays-of-Ancient-Roming 
about the yard, and is fairly well satisfied with 
himself. Of course, this is only one experience. 
I have had reciters who were perfectly tame and 
would never recite at all unless they were asked 
twice. But they always got unhappy, unless 
they w^r^ asked twice. If you allow them in 
the house, they may be muzzled ; an ordinary 
dog-muzzle requires very little alteration to 
make it fit a reciter. The practice of cutting 
out their tongues is rather cruel, although, if it 
is carefully done by a good veterinary surgeon, 
it is not nearly so cruel as some sentimentalists 
would have us believe. But neither the muzzle 
nor the removal of the animal's tongue is en- 
tirely satisfactory. If the reciter is naturally 
vicious, he will not be cured by such methods ; 
he will resort to dumb show, and attempt to 
prove to us how very much can be done by 
facial expression alone. In fact, although re- 
citers are frequently allowed to run about the 
drawing room by some people, and may fairly 
claim a place among our home pets, I am in 
favor of keeping them outside the house unless 



RECITERS. 251 



they are specially trained not to recite. Give 
them plenty of green poetry, an occasional press 
notice, and let them recite to one another, 

I have often been asked, What is the best 
kind of reciter to get ? Well, a great deal de- 
pends on your pocket. Reciters with very bad 
memories fetch the highest prices. Good female 
reciters are common enough ; dealers will give 
you about five of them for a shilling, as a rule. 
But their tempers are uncertain, and, if you have 
more than one in the yard, they must be kept in 
separate hutches, or they will fight. The two- 
poem juvenile is a pretty variety ; if he is care- 
fully trained he will be entirely free from all the 
charm of childhood. But I have no sympathy 
with those who keep really dangerous pets; a 
full-grown male tragic-reciter is very dangerous. 
Some fanciers pet them, out of sheer bravado ; 
but you would do better to avoid them, or keep 
them on the chain. Their soliloquy ispoisonous 
and incurable. 

Lastly, many people who come to see my pets 
notice two reciters in the yard who never recite 
at all. I have been entreated to say how I 



252 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



managed to train them to this perfection. Well, 
I have no infallible method, but I will give you 
a hint. Much may be done by cruelty. If you 
give the least encouragement, a reciter will 
always go on reciting. A thoughtless piece of 
kindness will undo all the good which has been 
accomplished by low diet and candid friends. 
In most cases I do not even aim at this state of 
perfection. I let the animals recite, and even 
give them a few press notices. They are happier, 
of course, when they are left thus, in the natural 
state. But still, I am proud of my two highly 
trained reciters. Sometimes I show them to a 
friend, and the friend by way of a joke says 
" Shelley ! " They drop their ears and slink 
away at once. Yesterday I threw one of them 
a little bit of Lord Tennyson, to see what he 
would do with it. For a long time he would not 
look at it ; then he walked round it very gingerly, 
giving furtive glances, first at the poetry, and 
then at me. His lips moved as if he were say- 
ing something to himself; he hurriedly drew a 
little looking-glass from his pocket, and was just 
going to assume a facial expression, when I gave 



RECITERS. 253 



a slight significant cough. In a moment he had 
put the looking-glass back, and scampered off 
out of the reach of temptation. I confess that I 
had a feeling of triumph, and I am going to try- 
keeping these two pets in the house next week. 



IV.— FANCY PENS. 

I MUST commence by owning that I do not 
keep any fancy pens now. But I used to keep 
them once, and made a study of them, and only 
gave them up because I had some writing to do. 
So I think that I am qualified to speak about 
them. At present I own twelve common pen- 
holders with steel nibs. I bought them fixed 
to an ornamental card, on which they were ac- 
companied by a piece of india rubber, an inch 
measure, and a glass flower-holder for the 
button-hole. The card was entitled " The 
Youth's Useful Companion," and the whole 
thing cost sixpence. I am willing to sell the 
glass flower-holder; I never could quite under- 
stand how it came to be included on the card. 
But the common penholders are affectionate, 
hard-working little things, and I would not 
part with them on any account. 

The first fancy pen I ever had was given me 



FJjVCV PJtATS. 



when I was very young indeed, young enough to 
have a nursemaid to guard me from danger and 
brush my hair. It was my birthday, and the 
nursemaid told me that Uncle William had sent 
me a new real gold pen. I had wanted him to 
give me a canoe, in order that I might explore 
the Holy Land, and I believe I had hinted as 
much to him, consequently I did not care much 
about the gold pen, and I fell in with my nurse- 
maid's suggestion that she should tend and 
cherish it for me until I became old enough to 
use so valuable an instrument without exciting 
public comment. I believe she was a larcenous 
nursemaid. At any rate she was sent away soon 
afterward, and took the real gold pen with her, 
and I never saw it again. A year or two after- 
ward I got a cornelian pen-holder. It was a 
fast goer, with beautiful free action, but snapped 
in two when I was trying to draw a pig without 
taking my pen off the paper. It was sent to the 
knacker's and became sleeve-linlcs and a brooch. 
It was not till many years afterward that I 
bought my first stylomaniac pen, and tried to 
break it in. 



256 PLA Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

Stylomaniac pens have a delicate constitu- 
tion and an uncertain temper. They are very 
dainty feeders. I gave my stylomaniac some 
ordinary ink one day. It was a very fair dinner 
ink at about twelvepence the dozen, but of 
course had no particular body or boquet. The 
stylomaniac turned up its r^/r^?/i'.y/ little iridium 
point, and refused to touch it. I tried to force 
its black mouth open, and then the brute bit me. 
Out of regard for my personal safety I did not 
insist any further. At last I procured a mag- 
nificent ink, grown on the Rhine, I believe. It 
had a curious fragrance, and had been matured 
in sherry casks ; or else the sherry which I was 
buying at the time had been matured in ink-pots 
— I forget which, but both are probable. As 
soon as I opened the bottle, my stylomaniac 
rolled slowly across the table, smelled the cork, 
and then looked at me lovingly. There was no 
trouble about feeding it this time. But it was a 
heady ink — deceptive, like Sauterne — and the 
animal had no sooner drunk it than it went fast 
asleep. I tried to make it write, but it would 
not, although I shook it hard, and did all I could 



FANCY PENS. 257 



to rouse it. Three days afterward it was still 
asleep, but after I had given it a little strong 
coffee it recovered itself sufficiently to write 
"Dear Sir," and make three blots. As it would 
do no more, I took it to the man who sold it me, 
and who guaranteed it to be sound, free from 
vice, and quiet to write and draw. He looked 
at it carefully and, I think, took its tempera- 
ture. He then said, rather coldly : 

" You have been using this pen to rake out 
pipes." 

" Of course," I replied. 

He then got most unreasonably angry. For 
my part, I always use pens for this purpose when 
they are not being used for writing. A change 
of work is as good as recreation ; every doctor 
knows this. An ordinary steel nib never minds 
being used to clean out a pipe-bowl, and writes 
all the better for it afterward. However, it ap- 
peared that I had made a very serious mistake. 
"Your stylomaniac," the man said, " may per- 
haps never write anymore. Take it home and 
clean it thoroughly." 

It could not very well have written any less. 



258 PLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

but I was too humble to say so. You cannot 
even wash a st}'lomaniac pen as you would wash 
anything else. I was told to use warm water 
with a little vinegar in it. I remember this 
distinctly now, but I had forgotten it that day 
when I got home. I knew that it was one of the 
things in the cruet-stand that I had to put in 
the warm water, but I had forgotten which thing 
it was. I argued to myself that it would prob- 
ably be mustard, because, when I had a cold, 
the doctor papered me with mustard-leaves until 
I felt like a hoarding. It was careless of me to 
forget. The mustard gave it paralysis of the 
iridium point, and in sheer disgust I put the 
brute in a tray with some other penholders that 
were past their work. Three weeks afterward I 
picked it up by accident. It had not a drop of 
ink in it. I just tried it on the paper, and I 
found that it wrote freel3^ It did the whole of 
a letter to the Guardian about a dog of mine 
which never barked during the hours of Divine 
service. I do not know what made it write, 
unless it was hypnotism. It has never written 
since, and a few months ago I determined to get 



FANCY PENS. 259 



rid of it ; so I lent it to a friend, and made him 
promise to bring it back next day. 

Of course there are many varieties of fancy 
pens, of which I have no space to speak at 
length. One of them requires to be dipped in 
turpentine instead of ordinary ink ; uhich is 
very convenient, because you cannot always 
get ordinary ink. Another will write one word 
with only five thousand dips. If only our 
great-grandfathers could come back again, and 
see how far civilization has progressed, and 
what triumphs the inventive faculty of man 
has achieved, how thankful they would be that 
they died when they did ! It is curious that 
no fancier has yet bred a pen which will al- 
ways spell sieze and ceiling correctly. I am 
quite a cultivated writer myself, but it is only 
during the last few weeks that I have felt cer- 
tain about those two words. 
- I have been asked to say something on the 
subject of cleanliness. Some people wipe pens 
on the inside of their coats. Some wipe them 
with the hair of their heads. The latter method 
seems to me an excess of devotion ; and, by an 



26o PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

ironical fatality, is generally adopted by those 
who wash less frequently. Others use shot or 
brushes, and a few prefer a corner of the blot- 
ting paper. But why not go to the root of the 
matter at once ? All these methods alleviate, 
but they do not cure. If you never used your 
pens they would never get dirty. It is the filthy 
habit of dipping them in ink which causes all 
the trouble, but I do not think anyone, except 
myself, has yet had the courage to point this 
out. That is the chief beauty of fancy pens — 
you never make them dirty by writing with 
them. They sometimes acquire a pleasant 
aroma from being used as tobacco-stoppers, 
but they never get contaminated by ink. 



v.— PERSONAL FRIENDS. 

A SMALL child, who used to patronize me a 
good deal, once allowed me the privilege of see- 
ing some of his most valued treasures. Among 
these were a little green frog who lived a motion- 
less life in a very large jam-pot, with a hand- 
somely bound copy of the " Christian Year "over 
the top of it. " Why do you keep it ? " I asked. 
" Because," the child replied thoughtfully, " he 
can go all the winter, and never eat anything 
but one blue fly what I catches for him. You 
couldn't." The child, with the admirable critical 
faculty that all children possess, referred at once 
to the frog's one distinctive quality. Pigs are 
profitable, fowls are useful, dogs are a stimulus 
to the imagination ; but to keep pets which are 
of no use' whatever, simply for the sake of their 
distinctive quality, is evidence of a critical and 
artistic temperament. Personal friends — so 
called from their habit of making personal re- 
marks — are not so profitable as pigs, and have 
261 



262 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES 



not, as a class, so much distinctive quality as 
may be discovered in a small green frog ; but 
they do differ in a marked manner from mere 
acquaintances, and the pleasure of keeping 
them gains an additional zest from the fact 
that they are very dangerous. 

I know a large wild bore who is always 
bearing down upon me with flashing tusks and 
some fat commonplace in his mouth. He tosses 
this down before me as if it were something 
important and new. The other day he eyed 
me in Piccadilly, threw up his head, trumpeted, 
and galloped after me. He caught me in the 
Strand, and said a variety of things, but the 
thing which he particularly wanted to say to 
me was this : " I have many acquaintances, but 
very few personal friends." He said it with 
his finest air. He seemed to think it almost 
significant enough to disorganize the traffic ; 
at any rate, he looked proudly around at the cab 
horses, as if he wanted to see how they were 
taking it. I have heard many men say the 
same thing. All seem to congratulate them- 
selves on having very few personal friends. 



PERSONAL FRTEXDS. 263 

This can be easily understood. Intimate, 
abiding friendsliip is a very beautiful, consola- 
tory, holy thing, but it is very difficult to avoid ; 
and, owing to some ironical natural law, which 
science has not yet explained, one is frequently 
most intimate with the people one hates most. 
Nobody can make you keep dogs ; and if you do 
keep them, you can decide what sort of dogs 
you will have ; but personal friendships are the 
result of chance rather than choice. I do not 
think, however, that fanciers would have nearly 
so much trouble about personal friends if they 
really understood how to keep them. They 
disregard the simplest rules in the management 
of their pets, and then are surprised that they 
turn vicious. Now, a young fellow came to me 
the other day. He had kept pigeons until his 
doctor recommended a change, and then he had 
acquired a few personal friends, and they were 
not doing well. " How ought I to feed them ? " 
he asked me. " I have tried oatmeal, but I 
do not get any sympathy from them." 

I was too angry with the young fellow to 
laugh at him. Yet many fanciers stand just as 



264 PLA y THINGS AND rARODIES. 

much in need of a few hints as he did. Never 
feed your personal friends at all. The highest 
altruism is to let somebody else be altruistic to 
your advantage. Therefore let your friends feed 
you and entertain you, if you want them to be 
really happy. I have adopted this method for 
years, and never had any trouble. Of course, it 
was equally absurd to expect sympathy from 
personal friends. The young fellow might as 
well have expected to get milk from his pigeons. 
Personal friends give dinners, advice, and candid 
opinions, but not sympathy. If you want sym- 
pathy you must go to the mere acquaintance 
or the entire stranger. You pursue an entire 
stranger into a smoking-compartment at the 
Temple Station, offer him a window concession, 
a lighted match, and an evening paper. Then 
make a remark upon the weather, and lead up- 
ward. By the time that you have got to St. 
James's Park you will be telling him the story of 
your dear, sacred sorrow, or how your tailor dis- 
appointed you, or anything that you feel deeply. 
Sympathy and South Kensington should hap- 
pen simultaneously, but entire strangers have 



PERSONAL FRIENDS. 265 

a nasty knack of getting out at Gloucester Road. 
If you bestow a confidence on a personal friend, 
he is almost certain to return it quickly, and 
this kind of conversational tennis is very tiring. 
He will not sympathize with you, because he 
knows you too well to keep up any absurd affec- 
tation of caring one straw about you. 

The young fancier whom I have mentioned 
complained bitterly that his personal friends 
were bad-tempered, and even snapped at him 
when he gave them their food. I am quite 
willing to own that personal friends are very 
dangerous pets ; but I found on inquiry that 
he had provoked them in a very stupid and 
needless way. He had been foolish enough to 
have a small success right before their eyes — in 
the very room in which they were lying. They 
naturally flew at him at once. Your personal 
friends never forgive your success. If you must 
succeed — and I have never found it necessary 
to do anything of the kind — you should go into 
some disused room, lock the door, draw the 
blinds, have a little success — not more than you 
can help — and never say anything about it. It 



266 rLA YTHINGS AND FAIWDIES. 

is just possible that your personal friends may 
not discover it, and then they will not con- 
gratulate you or backbite you. This young 
fancier had done another very foolish thing. 
He had lent money to one of his friends. Of 
course, the friend had to be very offensive to 
keep up his self-respect. Never lend money, 
and never oblige a friend in any way. Evil is 
wrought by too much heart as well as want of 
head. If you intend to keep personal friends, 
you must be cruel and selfish, otherwise your 
pets will be unhappy ; I never have the least 
trouble with mine. Fail frequently, borrow 
money, let them feed you, and flatter them 
once a week. This makes them feel grand 
and consequently they become attached to you. 
Authors take rather more flattery than the 
other kinds, but you need not try to borrow 
money from them ; they are all so wealthy that 
they cannot understand the want of money in 
others. 

I have only spoken of bachelor friends, be- 
cause they are the only kind that I ever kept. 
If one will only follow the few simple hints that 



PERSOXAL FHIEXDS. 267 



I have given, and never yield to momentary fits 
of kindness or good temper, they do very well. 
It is a little difficult, however, to get rid of 
them. There is a prejudice against selling them 
or giving them away. If you have influence, 
you can give them appointments abroad. If 
not, the best plan is to make them marry some- 
one — anyone will do. This answers very well 
and is said to be painless. 



VI.— NOTEBOOKS. 

My first governess, I remember, left us be- 
cause my people would not increase her salary 
by five pounds annually. In this I think they 
were justified, for there are many women who 
are willing to teach everything, know some of it, 
and wash up afterward, in exchange for a com- 
fortable home, without any salary at all. Still, 
considering the circumstances, I think it was 
generous of my governess to present me with a 
book as a token of affection when she left. I 
believe that she did so because I was a singularly 
lovable child ; but I have heard other motives 
suggested. Some say that she hoped her little 
offering might have a favorable influence on the 
recommendation which she carried to her new 
post ; but these are cynics — people who sacri- 
fice truth to pungency. The book in question 
was a guide to anyone who wished to lead a bet- 
ter life. It was a complete guide ; it exhorted 



NOTEBOOKS. 269 



to personal cleanliness and neatness of attire, 
and it did not forget my spiritual needs ; it also 
contained a chapter on the culture of the 
intellect. I am sorry that I have lost the book 
and forgotten the title of it, because I am still 
anxious to lead a better life. 

Unfortunately, I can only remember very 
little of its contents now. But there was one 
injunction in the chapter on the culture of the 
intellect which impressed me very much, and 
which first led me to the practice of keeping 
notebooks. It was this: 

" Buy a notebook. Put down in it anything 
which strikes you in your reading, any remark- 
able moral reflection or edifying illustration 
which may fall from the pulpit on Sunday, and 
any useful fact which seems worth remem- 
bering." 

There was another injunction in the chapter 
on neatness of attire, which had been ap- 
parently written by another hand. It ran 
thus: 

" Do not bulge your pockets with oranges 
and notebooks. They destroy the memory as 



2 7° FLA ¥77/ IN GS AND PARODIES. 

well as the clothes, and should be discouraged. 
Always brush and fold up after using." 

To this day I do not know how clothes de- 
stroy the memory, or how you can discourage 
an orange, or why you should brush a notebook, 
I thought at the time that the chapter on the 
intellect was more likely to be right, and that is 
why I went to my uncle William. I explained 
to him that I was going to lead a better life, and 
that if he would give me two shillings to get a 
notebook I could begin at once. He told me 
it was cheaper to get some ordinary paper, cut 
it up, and fold it in book form. Sooner than 
culture my intellect with a sorry makeshift like 
that, I felt that I would leave it just as it was. 
I then remembered that I had saved up a little 
money in order to get an orphan boy admitted 
into a Sailors' Home, or something of the kind. 
I took that money, went to the stationer's, and 
asked humbly for a notebook. 

The stationer was a very gloomy man. He 
pulled out three drawers and said hopelessly : 
" These 'ere are ruled for accountsand intended 
for business purposes ; and these 'ere are meant 



NOTEBOOKS. 271 



for reporters and the like ; and these 'ere are 
for gentlemen." 

He almost intoned the words. He did not 
think I was going to buy one. I chose one of 
the best ; it had a brown, glossy coat, a verj' 
gentle clasp, and a small, high-bred stamp- 
pocket ; it was just the notebook for a gentle- 
man. The stationer got almost cheerful when 
he had wrapped it up in paper, and put string 
round it, with a little loop by which I could 
carry it. I then found that it was eight shil- 
lings, and as I had only saved fourpence for the 
orphan boy I was not able to take it. I bought 
one of the commercial notebooks instead. The 
stationer would not wrap it up at all. He sat in 
one corner of the shop with his head in his 
hands, and sighed at me as I went out. I asked 
him to show me some drawing-pins, but he only 
shook his head drearily. 

I wrote down a great many useful facts in 
my notebook at first. I also amused myself 
with entering in it my opinion of anyone who 
had offended me. Then I forgot to put any- 
thing in it, and it ran away. Notebooks may 



2-J2 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

help you to remember other things, but you 
want something to make you remember the 
notebook. If they are not fed regularly, they 
always run away. Mine went to the laundress, 
and stopped there for a few days ; it came back 
with my uncle William's collars, and he opened 
it at the written statement that he was a liar, to 
which I had appended my opinion of the ulti- 
mate end of all liars. There was no defense. 

This made me mistrust notebooks. I did 
not have another until my aunt gave me one 
when I first went to school. It was a magnif- 
icent animal to look at, very showy ; with a 
strong back, but an evil temper. It must have 
been ill-treated when it was young. It had 
a very sharp clasp, and it used it freely ; during 
the whole time that it was in my possession I do 
not remember a single day when it did not try 
to bite me. And it had powerful, steel-shod 
corners that pawed holes in all my pockets. I 
used to write all my themes in it, so it got plenty 
of exercise, but I never subdued its spirit. And 
I never subdued its appetite. It used to take 
fancies for things, and it simply would have 



NOTEBOOKS. 273 



them. I had a birthday card which represented 
an angel ; the wings folded back and disclosed a 
verse of a hymn and a scent-bag. It had been 
sent me by someone who was very dear to me, 
and I generally carried it about with me. My 
notebook took a great fancy for that card, and 
used to follow it about. In whatever pocket I 
put that card, I always found the notebook 
waiting for it. It was not a sentimental attach- 
ment ; it simply meant that the notebook 
wanted to eat it. At last it tried to get it into 
the partition which was marked post-cards, and 
crumpled it a little. I was so disgusted by its 
greediness that I exchanged it with Pigbury for 
an old British coin. He made me give him the 
birthday card as well, which did not show very 
nice feeling in Pigbury, as I had already ex- 
plained to him that I had especial reasons for 
valuing that card. When I returned home my 
aunt found out that I had disposed of the note- 
book which she had given me with her own 
bony hands. There was no defense. 

I have always had notebooks since this 
incident, but I have never been fortunate with 



2 74 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

them. However great one's skill as a fancier 
may be, one can never be entirely superior to 
fortune, and I do not think them altogether 
satisfactory pets. It is true that they will eat 
anything ; they will eat scraps — newspaper 
scraps — which you would not care to eat your- 
self. Some of the more robust will even stand 
raw verse or accounts that are only partially 
cooked. But (speaking of accounts reminds me 
of this) they always lose their figure. They are 
graceful little creatures when they are young, 
but they either grow meager because their 
owners tear out too many leaves, or they get 
bloated and plethoric, because they are allowed 
to have too many scraps. In this respect they 
present a striking similarity to the human race, 
a similarity which goes far toward justifying 
the well known scientific theory that man was 
evolved from a notebook. As it is also obvi- 
ous that notebookswere originally evolved from 
men, we see that existence is a circle, and we do 
away with the necessity for a first cause. The 
same theory provides us with a logical defense 
of the hereditary principle. And not only do 



NOTEBOOKS. 275 



notebooks always lose their graceful figure, but 
their temper is proverbially uncertain. I only 
know one story, which is really authentic, of 
devotion displayed by a notebook. It hap- 
pened in the Crimea. There was a little drum- 
mer-boy, who owned a handsome notebook 
that had been given him by his mother. He 
always carried it in his breast pocket. He was 
a bright, cheery little fellow, and everybody 
loved him. And one day he was marching 
gayly along, drumming on his little drum, when 
a cannon-ball came after him. The cannon- 
ball was going so much faster than the drum- 
mer-boy that it caught him up, and, as it was 
a rainy day, got inside. It was found after- 
ward that if the cannon-ball had gone one- 
sixteenth of an inch further through the boy 
it must have quite spoiled the notebook. 



VII.— PIANO-TUNERS. 

PlANO-TUNERS — SO called from a Greek word 
signifying one who never wipes his boots — are 
very difificult to domesticate properly. They 
may be enticed into the house by the offer of a 
piano to tune ; but as soon as they have satisfied 
their appetite with it, they rush off at once, un- 
less they are forcibly prevented. Our greatest 
living naturalist says in a recent work : " I am 
not acquainted with any instance of piano- 
tuners being kept in a state of captivity. Little 
is known of their habits, as opportunities for 
observation are very rare." Another writer of 
hardly less repute merely remarks that they are 
very shy, have sharp talents, and a very moderate 
bill. I have no hesitation in saying that if these 
two writers had only exercised a little patient 
research, they might have had much more to tell 
us. They are not even correct. I myself own a 
beautifully marked piano-tuner, who comes to 



PI A NO- 7 ■ UNERS. 277 



me every few months. They like their liberty, 
it is true ; but when they get to know you, they 
always come back at regular intervals. Their 
curious passion for tuning pianos is very strong, 
and may be utilized to secure their capture. 
Take a piano, put it into a furniture van, and 
shut the doors; then drive it slowly down the 
street of any suburb. Presently you will see a 
group of these interesting little animals, with 
their anxious faces and little black bags, running 
behind the van, and only pausing to fight one 
another. So remarkable is their instinct that 
they can scent a grand piano on a clear day at a 
distance of over two miles. It is easy enough to 
select from the little group of tuners the one 
which you would like to have for your own ; a 
few shots will disperse the rest. But their 
plumage is not very valuable, and it would be 
brutal to kill many of them. Although, as 
I have pointed out, they are very pugnacious 
among themselves, they rarely bite a fancier. 
Wiien you have selected your tuner, give him a 
piano to worry, and then let him go away. Do 
not keep him on the chain, because that will 



278 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



only make him unhappy. If you have treated 
him properly, he will probably come back to you. 
When they are not devouring pianos, it is 
believed that tuners make their lair in little 
tropical drawing rooms, where there are stuffed 
hummingbirds and luscious waxen fruit, and the 
tenants flit softly away in the moonlight. There 
is generally a brass plate outside, and it is said 
that females of the species are as likely as not, if 
provoked, to undertake dressmaking. But this 
is mere conjecture. In the same way the state- 
ment that the females of piano-tuners always 
teach in a Sunday school is only supposition, 
based on the fact, which so many fanciers have 
noticed, that piano-tuners invariably refuse a 
second glass of sherry. 

I have frequently been asked by young 
fanciers on what principles one should choose a 
piano-tuner. It is an easy enough task. Just as 
one prefers a velveteen-coated photographer to 
the other kind, because he appears to have a 
higher tone, but is not more expensive ; so, in 
choosing a tuner, you should select the one 
which has the longest hair. Of course, a good 



PIAX0-7'CNEA\S. 279 

deal depends on the purpose for which you want 
him. The long-haired invest their work with 
the most artistic merit ; but those which part 
their hair in the middle are the best conversa- 
tionalists, and are far more likely to wear var- 
nished boots. It is not altogether pleasant to 
watch a hungry tuner at work. You turn the 
animal into the room where the poor piano is 
lying. He glares wildly around, until he sees 
his prey ; then throws down his hat, and dashes 
at the instrument. In a moment he has torn 
off its hide, and you may hear him breathing 
heavily, with his head in its entrails. Then he 
withdraws his head, and proceeds more slowly 
with his repast, taking little pecks at it. The 
poor instrument cries piteously, but it is not 
safe to interfere with a tuner after he has once 
tasted octaves. When he first opens the piano 
it is, however, usual to make some remark in 
order to encourage him ; if the remark is tech- 
nical, it should be correct. It is not right to 
say, "The mainspring's gone, I'm afraid;" or, 
"There will be a good deal of soot in it, as we 
didn't have it done last winter." That sort of 



28o PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



thing only makes the tuner angry; it is both 
kinder and wiser to point out to him how 
seasonable the weather is. 

If you intend to keep a piano-tuner, you 
must be very careful not to disappoint him. 
Tuners are sensitive creatures. A man once 
told a young, fair-haired tuner to come in 
the afternoon, not knowing that his wife had 
told a grizzled plethoric tuner to come in the 
morning. So when the young fair-haired 
animal came in the afternoon, the piano was 
already tuned. But the butler knew nothing 
about it, and shut the animal up in the drawing 
room alone, and put sherry within easy reach. 
After an interval of two hours the butler en- 
tered the room again, and found the tuner dead 
on the music-stool, with his head in a black bag 
of tuning instruments. It is supposed that the 
poor animal, finding the instrument in perfect 
tune, then tried the pitch. You cannot touch 
pitch without being defiled, and the disap- 
pointment, defilement, and sherry — acting to- 
gether on an already enfeebled constitution — 
had broken the tuner's heart. I forget what 



PJA NO- TUNEES. 2 8 1 

they did with the body, but I do not think they 
had it stuiTed. On the other hand, another 
friend assured me that he had his piano tuned 
by three of these animals in one day, and that 
they all of them told him that it wanted doing 
very badly. His rooms were wrecked that 
night by the occupants of other rooms on the 
same staircase, but otherwise he seemed 
pleased with his experiment. 



VIII.— DUKES. 

My friends are always complaining to mc 
about my dukes. They say that I have too 
many, that I ought not to allow them in the 
house, and that they are very ill-mannered. 
There may, perhaps, be something in the com- 
plaints, but what can I do? I own between 
thirty and forty dukes, and although they are 
safely locked up in an old shed during the 
night, they simply \\ill get into the house in 
the daytime. As a rule, I do not think that 
they do much harm ; most of them are good- 
tempered, and all of them are quite clean, for I 
have them well washed with carbolic soap once 
every fortnight. But there are, of course, ex- 
ceptional cases. Now, some time ago I bought 
a large duke who had been in an American 
novel and got his temper spoiled. I have told 
my servants time after time that I will not have 
this animal in the drawing room — that they 
may make as much fuss with him as they like 
282 



DUKES. 283 



in the kitchen, but that on no account is he to 
be allowed to go any further than the kitchen. 
I have tried, too, to make the duke himself see 
that the kitchen is his proper place. But it is 
all of no use. However careful my servants 
are, and however often I thrash him for his dis- 
obedience, he is certain to break bounds ; and 
then, of course, there is unpleasantness. It is 
not very nice for a visitor, just ushered into the 
drawing room, to find a great fat duke asleep 
on the hearthrug in front of the fire ; and it is 
especially unpleasant when the beast uncurls 
himself, sits up, and begins to talk about his 
order. I really hardly know what to do with 
him. He has a way of saying "Noblesse oblige,'' 
and not caring where he says it. Then, again, 
there was a duke in "Sir Percival" ; I do not 
know if you remember him. I bought him ; he 
was expensive, but I do not care what I give 
for a really good duke. He was well marked, 
with a broad blue ribbon, as it were, across his 
chest ; and when he passed through the market 
place, he would speak many a gracious word. 
The first suspicion that T had of his temper, was 



284 PLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

when the butler complained about him. It ap- 
peared that he had formed a habit of smelling 
every cork that was drawn, and carefully ex- 
amining both ends; he would then shrug his 
shoulders, frown, and completely lose the drift 
of the conversation. As the butler pointed 
out to me, no one in the kitchen could possibly 
stand such manners. I was reluctant to lose 
the animal, and tried to break him of the habit 
by keeping him on Apollinaris. It was of no 
use, and shortly afterward the poor thing's sense 
of its social status became so acute that it was 
no kindness to keep him alive any longer. An- 
other of my failures was also a novel duke. 
He had been in Mr. Crawford's "Dr. Claudius." 
He was quite simple, wore cheap clothes, and 
seemed able to forget that he had any particu- 
lar rank. The simplicity and forgetfulness were 
a little ostentatious, perhaps, but he had no 
serious vices; he did not, for instance, drop 
many a gracious word. Yet an accident com- 
pelled me to get rid of him. He had gone into 
the garden in the dusk, to get strawberry leaves, 
and I mistook him for the gardener. Unfor- 



DUKES. 285 



tunately the gardener got to hear of it, and was 
much hurt. So, to prevent the mistake occur- 
ring again, I sold the duke. 

I have been asked whether I recommend 
EngHsh or foreign dukes. Either do very well 
if you can only conquer their passion for social 
aggrandizement. As a rule, the English duke 
has the greater property, and the foreign duke 
has the darker mustache ; the foreign duke is 
more of a villain, and the English duke is more 
of a bore; but these distinctions only hold 
in the case of novel-bred dukes. Novel-bred 
dukes are more satisfactory than the other kind, 
although I myself keep both. I have only got 
one literary duke, and I cannot remember at 
the present moment whether he is novel-bred 
or not. But he is always shedding articles 
about the house, and I hardly know what to do 
with them. If only we had some monthly re. 
view which made a specialty of ducal articles, 
without much regard to their inward merit, I 
could send them there; but, of course, there is 
nothing of the sort in existence. As it is, I 
find these articles lying all over the house — one 



286 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

on the mantelpiece, another on the carpet, and 
a third very likely on the income tax. But, as 
I have already said, the main difficulty is to put 
a stop to their social ambitions. Few dukes, at 
any rate very few of my collection, are willing 
to stop downstairs in the kitchen ; and yet, if 
they come upstairs, one's friends begin to com- 
plain at once. I often think, cynically enough, 
when I go to feed my dukes or to superintend 
their fortnightly bath, that probably at least 
half of the beasts consider themselves to be 
every bit as good as I am. The duke that I got 
from "Dr. Claudius," however, was quite differ- 
ent. He had a proper sense of shame. I've 
known him run off into the garden, scratch up a 
hole, and bury all his titles and family estates 
in it ; then he would come back, and put his 
cold nose into my hand, and fawn on me, and 
try to make me believe that he was his butler. 
It was a pretty and pathetic incident, and a 
pleasing contrast to the conduct of some of 
my other dukes, who will go running after 
American heiresses. Of course, they only 
get snubbed for their pains. 



DUKES. 287 



Yes, in spite of what my friends may say, I 
love my dukes. It is the natural sympathy of 
the strong for the weak. The poor animals 
have been terribly handicapped in the race of 
life, and I feel for them, and I think they are 
happy with me. The strict discipline, plain 
living, plain speaking, and carbolic soap are 
good for them, and they know it. Occasionally 
one of them will so far forget himself as to drop 
a gracious word ; and, of course, I have had to 
put up with the exceptional cases that I have 
already mentioned ; but on the whole they are 
getting to be very well trained — I had almost 
said civilized. They will never, I am afraid, be 
quite as common as canaries, but I do not see 
any reason why every middle-class household 
should not own at least one of them. The prej- 
udice which exists against them at present is 
perfectly senseless, but it has prevented fanciers 
from devoting proper attention to them. And 
do not be misled by silly stories about their 
appetite ; they eat very little, if any, more than 
ordinary people. 



IX.— BABIES. 

Babies are various. They resemble invalids 
in their habits of browsing on milk; political 
programmes in their absence of any decided 
features ; typewriters in their refusal to work ; 
and steam whistles in the gentle cooing sounds 
which they are said to produce. But, in spite 
of these minor points of resemblance, natural- 
ists are probably correct in regarding them as a 
kind of serpent. Nor have they come to this 
conclusion merely on the ground that both 
babies and serpents require warmth ; that is 
merely a point which they have in common 
with soup, the affections, and many other 
things. There is more evidence than^that. 
Notice the gliding, undulatory motion of a large 
baby as it crosses the nursery carpet ; notice, 
too, the wicked looks of the hooded variety, or 
listen to their terrible rattle; or throw a num- 
ber of schoolgirls into the cage in which your 
baby is placed, and see the deadly fascination 



289 



which it exercises over the poor creatures. 
There they stand, under his glassy, hypnotic 
stare, swaying a Httle to and fro; they cannot 
escape, even though you leave the cage door 
wide open ; presently their terror causes a par- 
tial paralysis of the vocal organs; they are no 
longer able to speak articulate English, and 
their efforts only result in gibberish ; then they 
draw nearer and nearer to the crouching baby, 
and in another minute they are in its clutches. 
The scene is too painful for further description, 
but enough has been said to show what the 
real nature of these reptiles is. Still a few 
schoolgirls more or less do not matter, and 
where babies are properly under the control of 
adults they are not really dangerous The great 
point is not to let them see that you are afraid 
of them. If you are going to kiss them, or to 
punish them in any other way, you must simply 
show a little pluck. Some young men shirk 
kissing babies, and afterward allow themselves 
to be led into it. That is not right; there 
should be no hesitation. I find that the best 
way is to shut the eyes, hold the breath, and 



290 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



take a short run at it. I mean that this way 
suits me the best, personally ; I own that it gen- 
erally produces in the baby that gentle cooing 
sound to which I have already referred, and 
nursemaids say rather bitter things about me 
afterward. 

Any number of middle-aged bachelors who 
are anxious to have a baby in their chambers to 
pet have written to ask me where a fat one-year- 
old specimen can generally be found. Well, 
there are many places ; although, of course, they 
have one or two special haunts. You will find 
two or three babies, as a rule, on the edge of any 
precipice. Or you can ride a bicycle through a 
suburb and afterward brush a dozen or so off 
the spokes of the machine ; the chief objection 
to this is that they sometimes get soiled or even 
broken in the process. The simplest way is to 
look in any smoking compartment. There 5^ou 
will never be disappointed. If there is a mother 
attached to the child, it is usual to throw her 
out of window. Even after you have found a 
baby, it is just possible that you may not know 
what to do with it. It is not necessary to 



BABIES. 29 1 



slightly compress a baby's back in order to make 
it say "Papa!" In fact, by so doing you may 
damage its works; the mistake is generally 
made by those who have recollections of youth- 
ful experiences in toy shops. The proper way 
is to put your own nose within an inch of such 
nose as the baby possesses, make a bad face, and 
then distinctly mispronounce the word. An- 
other mistake was made by one of my dukes — 
I think it was the duke I got out of "Sir Perci- 
val." He was congratulating himself on the 
idea that only the upper classes in London pos- 
sessed babies. He was deceived, of course, by 
a mere difference of nomenclature. Byebies 
are the same as babies — just as the tinned 
peaches of the grocer are precisely the same as 
\.\\Q. peches en compote oi the Italian restaurant. 
I have been asked why young babies have 
hair so short as to be almost imperceptible. It 
is to make up for the excessive length of their 
clothes at the other end. This is the law of 
compensation which we notice working every- 
where in nature. Often when I have seen some 
poor baby wearing its feet where its waist should 



292 PLA YTIIINGS AA'D PARODIES. 

have been, it has comforted me to think that 
after all it need never brush its hair. Natural 
laws prevail everywhere ; if you drop j-our baby 
out of the window, it will fall as far as the pave- 
ment and then it will stop. It was Sir Isaac 
Newton who first made this experiment. But 
I must not linger any longer upon these deep 
and philosophical reflections ; if, however, you 
are not suilficiently educated to understand 
them, they will, at any rate, show you that one 
may take the keenest interest in home pets, 
and yet have a cultured mind. 

Those who are less philosophical and more 
practical have often urged that babies are un- 
profitable pets, that one gets nothing out of 
them. This is not altogether fair. They have 
many pretty tricks which it is interesting to 
watch. Did you ever see a baby cut a tooth? 
It begins on the outside edge, and ends on the 
high G. Or, if tricks are not practical enough 
to please these captious critics, I may point out 
that babies taste very much like young dairy- 
fed pork. They make, in fact, a capital break- 
fast dish, as every epicure knows. 



X.— FIRES. 

Fires, like ghosts and eggs, have to be laid. 
They resemble cats in their dissipated habit of 
going out late at night. They have, in short, 
the most varied and complex character of any 
of my Home Pets. In some respects they are 
ludicrously irrational. In really hot weather 
the only room in the house in which they seem 
to care about sitting, is the hottest of all, the 
kitchen. You cannot laugh them out of this 
absurd habit. In the cold weather they may be 
put in any room where there is a cage for them. 
I have got a fire which never seems to be happy 
unless it is sitting immediately in front of me; 
it does not say much, but it just looks at me 
through the bars of its cage, pensively and 
dreamily, as if it could see pictures in me. One 
must be prepared for a certain display of tem- 
per in these eccentric little creatures. On the 
293 



294 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

most bitterly cold days they will monopolize 
nearly the whole of the front of the hearthrug; 
and, as long as they are warm, they seem to care 
nothing about anybody else. Sometimes they 
get so fierce that it is really not pleasant to go 
near them. At other times they just sit and 
mope. These defects are often due to errors of 
diet. Before you get angry with your fire, ask 
yourself, in common fairness, whether you have 
been starving the poor beast, or overfeeding it, 
or feeding it on the wrong things. The other 
day I came into my room and looked round for 
my fire. There it was, huddled up in one corner 
of the cage, looking as black as possible, and 
sulkily sucking the poker. I whistled to it 
cheerfully, but it took no notice. Then I drew 
the poker out of its mouth, quite gently, dug it 
in the ribs once or twice, and threw it a couple 
of lumps of sugar as a treat. It gave a slight 
cough, and began to stretch itself. In order to 
interest it, I held up a large prospectus of a new, 
mining company close to it — fires are very short- 
sighted. It soon brightened up, and chuckled 
audibly ; finally it thrust out a claw through the 



FIRES. 295 

bars, caught hold of the prospectus, and ate the 
whole thing up. Well, I only wanted it to be 
happy, and I forgave its greediness. 

Perhaps a few words on this question of diet 
may not be amiss. Of course, everyone knows 
that the staple diet of fires is coal. They must 
be coaled if you want them to be hot — one of 
those paradoxical truths that have a wonderful 
yet half-dreary interest for those who, like my- 
self, are constantly engaged in a study of the 
more serious problems of existence. But the 
diet should be varied. A few sticks may be 
given to your fires in the early morning, when 
there is no one about ; the noise which they 
make in crunching them is rather vulgar and un- 
pleasant to hear, and they cannot be taught to 
eat them noiselessly. Fires are particularly 
fond of paper; but too much of it is not good 
for them, and makes them dull and depressed. 
I can remember one day — a day when the sun- 
light seemed to have gone out of my young life, 
and I had returned her letters and she had re- 
turned mine — that I gave my fire two pounds of 
prime note paper cut rather thick. The beast 



2 96 PLA y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

flew at it and licked up four or five sonnets with 
avidity; then it looked unhappy and seemed to 
want to put the rest back. I can never forgive 
myself for it, but I made it go on eating, and it 
finished all but one short postscript. Then the 
poor, faithful, obedient creature gave apathetic 
look at me, and lay down and died. It may 
have been my guilty conscience, but I hardly 
liked to stop in the room where the body of the 
dead fire was lying ; it gave me an uncanny sen- 
sation of coldness. If your fire gets low-spirited, 
it means that it wants some sugar; but do not 
feed it entirely on sugar, because it makes one's 
housemaids so sticky. 

Do not wash your fires as you would wash any 
other pets, with soap and water. It is not good 
for them. I spilt a kettleful of water over my 
fire the other day, and it did not like it at all ; it 
was quite put out about it. You should groom 
them gently with a brush that is sold for the 
purpose. This makes their coats bright and 
glossy. If you find that a display of temper on 
the part of a fire comes not from wrong diet but 
from innate viciousness, you must be very firm 



FIRES. 297 

with it, and at the same time you must not lose 
control over yourself. Treat it just as you 
would treat your wife or your mother under 
similar circumstances. Kick it, and beat it 
over the head with the poker. 

I shrink naturally from telling any anecdotes 
about the intelligence of my pets, because I have 
a sensitive temperament and cannot bear to be 
doubted. But the following story was told me 
by a man who, I am sure, would sooner die than 
misrepresent a fact or lead anyone to believe the 
thing which is not. He was, in fact, a political 
journalist. Besides, the anecdote in question 
seems to me to contain strong internal evidence 
of its truth. 

"I had often noticed," my friend told me, 
"that when I had settled myself for the evening 
in my easy-chair with my meerschaum, my fire, 
like yours, had taken up its position immedi- 
ately in front of me. It always looked at me 
long and curiously, as though it were imagining 
landscapes in my waistcoat or building castles 
in my hair, as the poets say. Little did I imag- 
ine, then, that it had its eye on my meerschaum. 



29^ PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

One evening, however, I happened to go out, 
leaving a box of cigars behind me open on the 
table. When I came back again, about an hour 
afterward, my fire zvas smoking. It is some con- 
solation to me now — some small consolation — 
to think that all that could be done %vas done. 
In my agony I stirred it up with the best poker, 
the poker that was so ugly and costly that I 
generally used it only as an ornament. I 
argued with it. I showed it that smoking must 
stunt its expenses and increase its growth. 
But nothing that I could do — nothing that 
anyone could do — could break it of the vile 
and detestable habit which it had formed. 
It was no kindness to ourselves to allow it 
to go on smoking any longer. It had to 
be killed. One of the housemaids did it — 
I couldn't. And now that fire's dead — dead 
—dead!" 

At this point my friend who is, like all jour- 
nalists, of a gentle and tender-hearted nature, 
completely broke down. "Ah!" he sobbed, 
"it was my own filthy example that did it, and 
that's what's breaking my heart. I've used my 



FIRES. 299 



last match. You might give me a light from 
yours," 

Reader, need I point out what the moral 
of this story is? Think it over for yourself. 
Go quietly to your own room, and think it 
over. 



XL— CURATES. 

I DO not wish to speak of curates in the 
natural state, of curates in church. I have 
observed them in their native aisles, but I do 
not forget that I am writing of home pets, and 
I only intend to mention the domesticated 
curate. 

Only the other day a lady consulted me on 
the subject of curates. She generally had a 
few in her greenhouse, or playing about with 
tennis-balls on the lawn. "I can never," she 
said, "remember the different varieties. I have 
fixed labels on them sometimes, in order to 
make no mistake, but the vexatious little ani- 
mals tear them ofT." The dif^culty is not an 
uncommon one ; for although they can be easily 
distinguished in the natural state, they are in- 
clined to resemble one another when domesti- 
cated. Fortunately, one of my dearest friends 
is the butler at a house where there are a good 



CURATES. 301 



many curates kept ; it is a sort of curate ranch, 
in fact, and I have the benefit of his opinion. 
But, unfortunately, I know him to be preju- 
diced, and consequently cannot value that 
opinion as much as I might otherwise have 
done. He says that he observes the Bibles 
which they occasionally leave on the hall 
table, and has noticed : 

(i) That low-church curates have large, 
plainly bound Bibles, with flaps, filled with 
loose sheets of paper — which may be [a) hymn 
lists, {]}) verse, {c) notes in pencil of the sermons 
of other curates — and secured with an elastic 
band. 

(2) That the Bible of the high-church curate 
is smaller, has an ornamental binding, and con- 
tains an extract from St. Augustine written on 
the title page. 

(3) That the broad-church curate has no 
Bible, but manages to get along with selections. 

Of course, I do not say that these opinions 
are absolutely correct ; as I said before, the 
butler was prejudiced, although I cannot re- 
member exactly at the present minute which 



302 PLA YTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



side his prejudices favored. I have often 
thought that curates might, when in the do- 
mesticated state, be distinguished not so much 
by the ordinary scientific terms, dividing them 
into three classes, as by the quaHties which 
they bear. 

For instance, there is the intellectual curate, 
one of the commonest kinds. He will, in the 
natural state, quote the original Greek, and, 
when he is kept in a house, he is likely to read 
fine pieces of poetry aloud. I have in my pos- 
session a copy of the poetical works of Long- 
fellow, given to me when I was young as "A 
Reward for Marked Improvement in Hand- 
writing," and there are three holes cried straight 
through the most pathetic part of " Evangeline." 
The damage was done indirectly by an intel- 
lectual curate with a rich tremor in his voice. 
I should have not minded it so much if they had 
been my own tears; a man has a perfect right 
to weep his copy of "Evangeline" into sheer 
pulp if he likes; but he does not care to have 
his books spoiled by aunts whom he does not 
value. Then there is the athletic curate, 



CUR A TES. 303 



whose similarity to a Mexican mustang will 
be recognized by anyone who has never seen 
either. He looks very free and fearless as he 
dashes past one on his tricycle, tossing his head 
at intervals to increase his impetus, and snififing 
the morning breeze. You can generally keep 
this kind in the stable. But although he is 
an athlete, he never forgets that he is a curate, 
and I believe that his passion for lawn tennis 
is connected with the service. On the other 
hand, the social curate may be allowed to come 
into the drawing room. He will get into a 
corner and purr. Or you can pour a cup of tea 
into the slot, and draw out a candid opinion of 
the vicar. Yet in the end the curate becomes 
a vicar, just as the common frog becomes a tad- 
pole, or a chrysalis, or something of the kind. 
Then, of course, there is the sad, soulful curate 
of fiction, who suffers terribly from doubts; 
sooner or later he discovers that he is a fraud ; 
then in a crowded church, a fit of remorse, and 
a chapter headed Noji sum digmis ! he preaches 
a farewell sermon ; there is a quivering gasp in 
his voice; the congregation weep, for they all 



304 PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 

love him ; the curate weeps and the vicar 
weeps; the air is redolent with agony. And, 
lastly, there are some curates who never get 
domesticated at all. 

Why, it may be asked, should one keep 
curates at all? There is the expense of feeding 
them to be considered, not to mention the 
trouble of exercising them and keeping them 
clean? Does it repay one? I should, from my 
own experience, answer in the affirmative, for 
this reason — it is possible to say sarcastic things 
about curates. If you urge that you do not 
want to be sarcastic, or to be thought sarcastic, 
one must, I suppose, believe you. But my im- 
pression is that if the gentlest dove that ever 
cooed were told that it was terribly satirical, it 
would have difficulty in concealing its pleasure 
at the compliment. You can be sarcastic on 
the subject of curates when you would find it 
impossible to be bitterly witty about anything 
else — except, perhaps, mothers-in-law, amateur 
theatricals, and seasickness, or anyone who 
attempts to write a humorous book. It is not 
probable that your sarcasm will be new, but it 



CUR A TES. 305 



takes a stronger reason than this to stop a sar- 
castic person when his blood is up. On the 
other hand, there are objections to keeping 
curates. They use a good deal of tea, and set 
examples, and marry on the least provocation. 
During the Christmas season they lie in a jungle 
of evergreens, sucking tin-tacks and watching 
their parishioners fall off ladders. The greatest 
objection to them, of course, is that they will 
work on Sunday. 



XII.— WATCHES. 

Whenever I see the bright, intelligent face 
of a young watch, or stroke its soft, curly hair- 
spring, I am paticularly impressed with its 
charm as a home pet. It costs nothing to 
acquire one ; for watches, like plush tobacco 
pouches and candid opinions, are generally 
given to you by someone who knows no better. 
They are cleanly in their habits. They make 
excellent playmates for children. Their vari- 
ety, both in structure and temperament, is very 
great ; many stories might be told by old fan- 
ciers to illustrate the distinct and vivid person- 
alities of their favorite watches. 

A friend of mine once had a watch of a 
romantic and imaginative character. He al- 
ways assured me that there was Italian blood 
in that watch. One day he was in an uphol- 
sterer's shop, trying to find something which 
would give his chambers a higher tone, when 
306 



WA TCHES. 307 



his attention was attracted by one of those tall 
old-fashioned clocks. At the same moment he 
noticed that his watch had climbed out of his 
pocket and was looking hard at the same clock. 
He laughed at its playfulness, and put it back 
again ; but he noticed at the time that there 
was an envious expression on its second-hand. 
Presently, as he was talking to the upholsterer, 
he hit his waistcoat pocket, just to remind the 
watch that he was outside. To his surprise he 
found that the watch was also outside ; it had 
jumped out again, and was once more staring 
at that fine old clock. He wound it up hard — 
to punish it — and took it home at once. It 
was not safe, of course, to take it about the 
streets any more. When a dishonest loafer 
sees a man dangling loose outside a watch, he 
naturally makes use of his opportunity and 
takes one of the two. My friend, getting anx- 
ious, took his watch to a watch doctor, who said 
that it wanted cleaning; then, not being quite 
satisfied, he consulted a psychologist, who said 
that it was Ambition. There can be little 
doubt that the psychologist was right.- The 



308 PL A Y THINGS AND PARODIES. 

watch had admired the big clock immensely, 
and it was now trying to be a clock. This was 
unmistakable. Whenever the hands pointed 
to the hour, it always looked just as if it were 
going to strike; and it went much more cheer- 
fully when it stood on the ground against the 
wall like a clock. It never actually became a 
clock. My friend sold it, and afterward found 
that it had imagined itself into being a sun- 
dial, but could get no further. 

I do not want you to be misled by this story. 
I do not say that all watches would show so 
much ambition and imagination. I simply 
have given this as an instance of one of the 
many varieties of temperament to be found in 
watches. But nearly all watches resemble each 
other in at least one point — nearly all are ex- 
tremely sensitive. A man was walking out one 
day with his faithful watch by his side ; he had 
been in the habit of allowing his watch occa- 
sionally to carry some little trifle for him, such 
as a postage stamp or a scrap of paper with an 
address on it, and it was always quite obvious 
that the watch was proud and glad to be able 



WA TCHES. 309 



to assist its master. On such occasions you 
would notice it jumping about and champing 
its swivel in a most spirited way. However, on 
this particular day he purchased a penny stamp, 
and, out of sheer absence of mind, asked the 
man who sold it if he would kindly put it in a 
piece of paper for him. This made it a bigger 
parcel than could be carried by the watch, so 
the man took it home in his hand. When he 
got home he looked at his watch. It had 
gained two hours, broken its mainspring, and 
was lashing out all round his pocket with its 
regulator. This was not bad temper; it was 
sensitiveness. The watch felt hurt at being 
neglected. It is not to be denied, of course, 
that there are such things as bad-tempered 
watches, but in nine cases out of ten it will be 
found that this bad temper simply arises from 
their being constantly kept on the chain. The 
most sensitive watches are those that have 
three hands. The third hand is always second- 
hand, which is a paradox on the face of it ; and 
it is trying for a watch to wear its paradoxes 
where other people wear their smiles. If you 



3IO PLAYTHINGS AND PARODIES. 



want your watch to be miserable you must 
study its temperament. Half the pleasure in 
the world is caused by careless and inconsider- 
ate actions. 

It is not generally denied nowadays that 
those watches which contain the figure seven 
in the number they bear never go on Sundays. 
Science is still groping after an explanation of 
this phenomenon ; and with all our boasted 
progress it is to be feared that no satisfactory 
conclusion has yet been reached. It has been 
asserted, though with less authority, that good 
watches when they die go to Geneva ; while 
those whose works are evil do not as a rule go 
at all, even when they are alive. 



THE END. 



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